


The Fifth

by swabloo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Highlander: The Series, House M.D., Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Stargate - All Series, Stargate SG-1, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate History, Ancient History, Crossover, Harry is many people throughout history, Harry!Methos, Immortal!Harry, Mythology - Freeform, home of plotbunnies, partway epic, surprise crossover ending, there was an attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swabloo/pseuds/swabloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, He was just a man. But He became a man of many names - names of history, names for the terrible power that he possessed. Methos was never a name, it was his Legend. Harry Potter,on the other hand... Well, that was something special. You never forget your first. </p><p>- - -</p><p>I figured I might upload my kind-of completed foray into historical and mythological freeform crossover epic. I never got around to finishing the story completely, but there are three and a half rather long completed chapters plus a fleshed out timeline and an epilogue.</p><p>Anyone is welcome to use the ideas that formed in this fic - here's hoping all those plot bunnies don't go to waste!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The Fifth**

**Prologue**

When he was five, he was already weary of the world. He understood how an action - even a small, harmless action - would result in horrible consequence. He also understood how he would be punished, even when no action had preceded it; how sometimes, senseless pain was caused, without provocation of any sort.

When he was five, he learnt that the world wasn't a fair place. His cousin - dumber, fatter, and uglier - was treated like a prince, undeserving of his spoilt greed and gluttony. His cousin was never punished for pushing him over, but the reverse was simply sacrilegious. The world itself seemed uglier because of it.

When he was five, he learnt how to persevere and to work hard. Because if he didn't, then he wouldn't get to eat. Sometimes, they forgot to feed him anyway, even if he'd done all they'd asked for. He understood hunger - starvation - the kind that slowly gnaws away at your stomach, and then your mind, before you become half delirious from it. To the point where he no-longer felt hungry, but empty to a degree that he couldn't understand, and didn't know what to do to feel better again. Sometimes he wasn't sure if he wanted to, that maybe feeling nothing at all was better than the loneliness and pain.

When he was five, it was only in age that he embodied it. Not even his body showed it: malnourished but sturdy, from long hours of constant work. His face was gaunt and his eyes had dulled, dark in their sockets that looked at nothing but the next task at hand. His appearance caused his aunt to never look him in the eyes; to whisper  _'freak'_ , even when she knew he could hear her.

When he was five, his magic had had enough.

When he was five, Harry Potter disappeared.

**Chapter One**

**8,000 BC, give or take a few centuries.**

When he awoke, it was cold. His eyes had frosted shut, and he writhed around for a few minutes, rubbing numb hands against his face, arms and neck. Sitting up with a heave, his breath continued to gasp sporadically, white clouds forming in front of his face. It made no difference; everywhere he looked, it was a landscape of brilliant, blinding white. He stood and slipped against the ground, icy and cold. The sun, high in the sky, reflected against the world, and his whole body felt like it was burning.

Behind him, the ice rose in waves, thicker and more glacial than he had ever seen in Surrey. It looked like the north pole, like what he'd seen on the documentary his family had watched just the other day. He'd been shut into the cupboard before it had ended, and had heard Dudley laughing at the polar bears as they mauled each other.

A sliver of panic wound up his spine. Were there bears here? Would they eat him? He had to move, as fast as he could. He didn't want to be eaten by bears.

Shuffling forward, he forced his feet to move. He focused on his goal – to get away from this frozen place. If he kept walking, he was sure that he'd find people. People were everywhere (unlike this strange, ice-desert nowhere land he found himself in).

The wind howled through the ice and snow, and he carried on, shivering and coughing, his fingers and feet turning blue – but that was just the reflection from the ice, of course (Skin wasn't blue, right?). They didn't feel cold; they felt strangely warm (they felt nothing else at all). He carried on, the part of him that had been nourished by his family knowing, dark and deep within his mind, that if he stopped, then he would never get up. Only his footsteps, and the wind, made any noise at all.

He kept on walking, even as the sun stopped shining.

But after a while, He didn't know how long he'd been walking, only that he'd lost count of how many times the sun had come to greet him. Something told him that it shouldn't be possible, that he should have dropped dead or at least asleep a long time ago, but he found it easier and easier to silence that voice. He was a freak, wasn't he? Freaks didn't do normal things. If anything, this kind of thing was to be expected. His aunt had often wondered, aloud, why he didn't just die. He supposed a freak wasn't able to.

As he carried on – one foot in front of the other, left right, leftright leftright (he musn't, couldn't stop) – he looked around himself. Nothing had changed in the many days (weeks?) he'd been walking. Still, the ice numbed him. Still, the white, empty expanse surrounded him. No end was in sight, although after a few days, he'd stopped panicking or despairing. He'd stopped feeling anything at all.

Left, right. Left, right.

The wind picked up, speeding past him. He closed his eyes, and imagined, with each step, that it wasn't just a foot- but a mile that he walked. That each hard impact against his now scarred, bruised skin was a leap that carried him across miles and miles and miles; That each jarring step would take him across oceans. Across deserts.

If he weren't so numb, he might have felt the increasing pressure. He might have noticed how the wind seemed to dull around him, until he could hear nothing except the blood pounding faster in his ears. If he weren't so numb, he would have noticed how the world went dark – twisted and pulled, pushing him, some strange force  _willing_ him.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed how it wasn't white any more. The bone deep wariness and numbness caught up with him, and he noticed the dull throb that ached within him, how his whole body seemed to spark and tingle.

The numbness caught up with him, and he fell.

* * *

A strange clicking noise sounded above him. Groaning, he opened his eyes and squinted up into the –- branches?

A bird, bright and colourful with a very yellow beak, larger than what he was used to seeing, peered down at him through the foliage. The beak clacked together again without rhythm, head cocked to the side. He pushed himself onto his elbows to see better, as his sight was blurry without glasses, but the movement made the tropical bird shuffle back and take off.

With his eyes, he followed the colour as it swooped and squawked throughout the branches, and he tilted his head back to look up. Large, luscious trees spread skyward, and the whole sky was blotted out by leaves. The earth beneath him was rich and moist, the smell rich in his nose. Moss mottled the wet world around him, the vibrant green overpowering any other colour, with all it's different hues and tones melting together. The rushing, clear sound of running water was in the distance, and he could taste the freshness of it on his tongue.

It was because of the natural hum of life that he let himself get lost in, that the deep sound of a man's voice made him jump, and falling on his face in an attempt to get up and twist around. He made a distasteful noise as he wiped the dirt out of his mouth, and the voice before him chuckled. Looking up and sitting up, he observed the man.

By average standards, the man was very short, but his skin was darker than any other he had seen; it's smoothness was like melted butter, and it seemed to soak in all the light that kissed it. He had short, tight black hair less than a centimetre from his scalp, and his eyes pierced into him. Across his eyes was a band of dried light grey mud, with more of the same substance smeared across his torso and upper arms. The tip of a crude but sharp stone spear head pointed steadily between his eyes, which crossed in an effort to focus on it.

The man made another foreign sound, and by the tight flick of the spear and a general nod, Harry scrambled to stand, raising his open palms in what he hoped would say what he could not. Please don't kill me!

He followed the man throughout what he thought could be a jungle, stumbling over creeping roots along the way and narrowly missing low-hanging vines and other plants. Whilst the man moved fluidly throughout his environment, He, on the other hand, felt himself disturbing everything he crossed. Snakes hissed irritatingly in his wake ("Watch where you step!"), and bugs and beetles swarmed around the rattled wildlife. He stepped on something sharp or uncomfortable every other step, and he didn't need to look down to know that the souls of his feet were bleeding, whereas his guide's (captors?) feet looked toughened and hard, weathering anything they came across.

It was at least a silent twenty minutes before they met any signs of human life. A large wall of wood, like an exaggerated fence, with sharpened tips, made for a rather daunting sight. The man led him inside, and he was amazed at what he saw.

Inside was a huge clearing, although a good amount of plant life still remained inside. A spew of squat, wooden huts spread across the whole area, and everywhere he looked he could see men and women that resembled his guide's exotic features. Both men and women wore strange sorts of skirts, although whilst some were made of brightly coloured cloth, others were rather drab and muddy looking tan patched rags. They all had at least some sort of body decoration, some with just a few lines of white spots, others with elaborate full-body patterns. Men and women alike had pierces of all different kinds, although a hoop or circular style seemed to be the most prevalent. Over fires, he could see mostly fish being cooked, and he wondered if there was a river nearby where they went fishing, because in this sort of please, he couldn't see there being a supermarket (although, he really did try to spot one.)

By the way everyone and everything looked, he knew he was at least in Africa, but from what he remembered, that was a very big place. He didn't really know much about it, other than it was supposed to be very hot, but this place could hardly be described as any warmer than a regular English summer's day.

His guide gave him a strong push forwards, noticing how he'd stopped to stare at the surroundings. He followed the man into what looked to be the largest, best looking hut. Inside was a man, taller than his guide although still a lot shorter than his uncle back home. The man's skirt had gold decorating it, with brightly coloured stones and patterns. He wore an ornate headpiece, made of animal fur and bones, reflecting the skins that lay around the hut, with extravagant markings on his skin. As he was pushed forwards to stand before the other man, he noticed how his eyes lingered on his pale skin, and realized how he must have stuck out, coloured so differently as he was.

The man (he assumed to be the leader of this place) frowned down at him, and said something with a rather demanding voice. He shrugged, not understanding a single word. He shook his head and tried his best to look confused. The leader repeated his statement, although at his continued confusion, sighed and tried something different.

"Mwenye," He said, pointing to himself. "Jelani," he said, pointing at his guide. He then pointed at him, and waited expectantly.

Were they asking his name? "Harry," he replied, pointing at himself. Jelani looked at him and pointed at Mwenye, looking at him again.

"Mwenye," Harry repeated, pointing at the chief. "Jelani", pointing at his guide. "Harry," pointing at himself. He blushed a bit, feeling annoyed. He wasn't stupid! He knew what names were.

Mwenye smiled, nodding, and looked pleased. He beckoned Harry forward, who was pushed by Jelani. Mwenye gently grabbed his shoulders, turning him this way and that, peering intently at him as he inspected the boy. After he had tugged at the denim of Harry's pants and the cotton of his shirt, murmering to himself, Mwenye stared into the boy's bright green eyes. Harry stared back, and felt a shiver of fear crawl up his spine. What if he didn't pass inspection? He was exhausted, and everything past arriving here seemed blurry and strange; he was finding it hard to remember how he wound up in this place. Would they chuck him out, if he didn't meet up to their standards? Would Mwenye find out he was a freak? Uncle Vernon had said that freaks in Africa were sacrificed. Harry didn't want to be sacrificed, whatever that meant; his uncle had smiled in a rather cruel way when he said it, a look to his face that usually precluded pain.

Harry watched as Mwenye broke eye contact, and as his gaze travelled further upward. The chief frowned, and as he brushed away Harry's fringe, his eyes widened. A dark finger traced his scar, and then the man quickly let him go with a strange look to his face.

He exchanged words with Jelani for a few minutes, happily leaving him in the dark (although never quite taking his eyes off Harry), before his guide once again led him, although this time it was away from the hut. Once outside, Jelani ran a critical eye over him, before looking sceptical and laughing. Quickly going into a nearby hut, he then emerged holding a patched, tan, large strip of cloth. He gestured to it, then his own skirt, and then to Harry's pants and then shirt, that had once belonged to Dudley and reached down to his knees. Harry gaped at what he was asking – what! He wanted him to wear  _that_?!

Jelani nodded and stamped his foot against the ground, pushing the rag into his arms. He blanched when he realized what he was meant to do. Get changed? Now?  _In the middle of the street?!_

Whilst Jelani looked stern, Harry couldn't help but eye the spear that he held in his right hand, and didn't want to be facing the business end of it again any time soon. Quickly, so as to get it over with as soon as possible, he pulled the shirt off and quickly tied it around himself, pulling of his ripped, practically unusable pants from underneath. Jelani laughed, and, moving Harry's hands, showed him how to tie it properly around his hips. Busy as he was with his new garment, Harry didn't see the way Jelani's eyes darkened, frowning as the man looked over Harry's many burns and bruises, some of which looked suspiciously hand shaped.

As the man took Harry by his shoulder and guided him across the 'city', Harry saw everyone stop to stare at the white child that passed through them. They weren't hostile gazes, but it was enough to put him on edge. Eventually, they stopped when they reached another hut; this time, it was of the general same size as all the others. Jelani pointed to himself, and then to the hut, saying "Jelani –-" The rest was gibberish to Harry's ears, but he thought it might be that this hut was Jelani's hut.

Once inside, Jelani put Harry to sit onto the bed, and shifted around the sacks and jugs that were stacked in a corner. Jelani took some strips of large leaf like things, and a small jug to the table. On the long leaves, he took from the jug a thick white paste, and smeared it across them. Beckoning Harry forward, he motioned sitting on the table, and as the boy followed his instructions, crouched down in front of Harry and tightly wrapped one of the leaves around his foot.

Instinctively, Harry hissed, Foot lashing out in reflex. The paste stung! It felt as if his whole foot was burning. He tried to push Jelani's hands away, but the man shook his head, and pointed to his own feet and rubbed one. Harry thought he understood; it felt like the cream his Aunt would smear against his skin if he managed to draw too much blood from his own abused skin. Was it medicine? He wondered if it would help make his feet tough, like everyone else's were. Once secured, Harry tested out the new bandages, making sure he could still walk on them. Checking his own feet, he realized how red they were; he'd become numb to them, but now he saw the blisters, grazes and cuts that spread across every piece of skin that had come in contact with the floor. He knew it hadn't happened too recently, so it must have happened when he was in the cold lands. Now that his feet had been sorted, there were other issues that needed to be addressed.

Harry was only five, and so needed a place to say. Every woman not old nor too young had children, so it was easy to find a family to live with, although the people here were wary of the strange pale-skinned child that was brought to them.

He was given to a woman named Madiwa, of 16 winters. She already had two children, although she'd recently lost her third and oldest. Harry knew that, really, he was only a replacement son, but Mama Madiwa (as she told him to call her) still treated him as one of her own. She had no hair, although many piercings, with warm dark eyes that smiled at him. She was of the lower working class, and her man was a good fisherman. He was much taller than her, although still not as tall as Uncle Vernon; Harry had felt in awe of this mans muscle, and the traditional markings that adorned his body.

Mama Madiwa's children were both girls, the youngest being almost one and the oldest having seen three winters. Madaha, the eldest, was quick to latch onto her new older brother, often trailing and jumping him at random intervals. Never having had a sibling, or a friend for that matter, Harry was surprisingly grateful for the attention; but why do they like me? He would think to himself, knowing that at heart he was an unlovable freak, like Aunt Petunia had said so many times. He thought it must only be temporary, and soon, like all the other people he had come to know, they would soon learn the truth about him.

But when Madaha had fallen and scraped her knee, he had been the one she had ran to. Madiwa trusted him to look after Chiku, the youngest, who would suck on his fingers, drool all over him and babble endlessly. While trying to learn the language, he would often try to speak with his sisters in English, and they in turn would respond in similar sounds and motions. He learnt some of their language, and they learnt some of his, and together they could just about communicate.

Harry could tell that Madiwa's husband didn't like him, but that didn't matter; he had Jelani, more like a father than Vernon ever was. Sometimes, he would go to Jelani's hut and watch him work on his spears and knives, and together they shared a warm bond. But, even as Harry was slowly accepted by the others in the tribe, and he in turn accepted them, he still felt on edge. Like he was out of place, out of time; and he couldn't seem to get the feeling out of the corner of his senses, like a slight buzz in the back of his head that was constantly humming. If there was one thing the Dursley's had taught him, though, it was how to adapt.

* * *

Over the next few years, he joined lessons with the other children, all of whom kept staring at his pale, white skin with curiosity. Together, they learnt how to speak, hunt, fish, build and use the rudimentary stone and wooden tools that the tribe had cultivated throughout the years that they'd been here. Kush, they called their home; their culture had settled in the area around four or five generations ago, although their people had been around for a lot longer than that, and they lived here on hunting and fishing, as well as grain gathering and cattle herding whilst also being shepherds. They sometimes traded their cattle with tribes that lived days and days away, so all of them were taught how to manage the animals for long distances and periods of time, as well as how to work together to achieve greater goals.

Harry found himself flourishing in the environment. The heat was only like a constant English summer's day, although as the weeks and then months went by, he found it harder to remember any of his life in England at all. He woke with the sun and slept with the moon, and his days were so full that eventually, he even stopped wanting to go back home. He was happy here, even if he was still different, with his white skin and memories of things that no one else could even imagine.

In his first week in this new land, he'd dredged up the courage to ask Jelani about getting back home to England. Realizing the language barrier, he mimed to the sky, and spread his arms out like wings, humming his voice like a plane. Planes went everywhere, didn't they? The people here had to know about them.

But all that charade got him was a puzzled look from Jelani, who, after a few moments of staring at him like he'd grown an extra head, picked up a feather and held it out, making the sound for what Harry assumed to mean 'bird'.

"No, no," he'd said, getting frustrated and forcing down his worry. "Aeroplane? Fly high and get home to England? England?"

But Jelani had never heard of an aeroplane, or even England. Harry would ask different people a variety of questions, but after a few weeks he gave up, although it took another few weeks before he could sleep without panicking about this strange, foreign land.

* * *

When Harry had grown curious about the world outside the walls of their city, Jelani had warned him of the great cold.

"We only travel with the Sun," he said one day, making sure to speak slowly so that Harry could understand. "The Sun's path is warm, with life. In it we have trees and fruit and grain, with our water fish and land beasts. If we stray too far from The Sun's path, there is only death. The Chief travelled too far long ago, and told us of the horror. Outside the path, there are no trees, there are no fish. There is only white, and a deathly cold. A man would sooner fall into the ever-sleep, than live in the white lands."

Harry remembered that the Sun woke up in the East, and went to bed in the West. Did that mean that he wasn't allowed to go North or South?

"I've been in the white lands," Harry remarked, remembering his endless days of cold, where he was numb to everything. "It's where I walked to get to Kush."

When Harry told him that he'd lost count of how many times The Sun had risen on his journey, Jelani had looked at him with wide, awe-filled eyes. The thought that Harry might have been lying never crossed the man's mind. "You are blessed," he said, making a prayer to the spirits in thanks for guiding Harry to safety. "Come," he beckoned, "We must go to the Shaman, and inform him of this."

The Shaman was the oldest person in the tribe, having seen thirty-two springs in his lifetime. His face was weathered with the hardships of tribal life, and his eyes were deep with the wisdom of the spirits. Brightly coloured feathers adorned him, red paint in patterns across his face and torso. The scent of incense clung to him like a second skin. Around his neck was a stone totem, carved like some sort of fish, hung on a rope. He dressed far more vibrantly than any other person, and his hut was in the far reaches of the city.

Harry had only briefly met him once, and had heard yet more of the mystical man; The Shaman led the tribe to prosperity, advising on hunting, fishing, plants and medicine. He would guide souls across the spirit plain, commune with said spirits, and was the wisest man. He taught the tribe how to survive. Everyone, even the Chief, deferred to him.

After Harry had entered, he lit a fire in the centre of the hut, sitting Harry down as Jelani left, presumably to tell the Chief that he held an audience with the Shaman. It was expected that they would be undisturbed for quite a while.

The Shaman muttered, tracing the boy's lightning scar with a firm finger and shaking his staff over both Harry and the fire. Powdered plant was smeared around Harry's eyes and mouth, and with some of Harry's spit and blood, the rest was thrown into the flames. They roared, burning brighter. The two of them stood, on either side of the fire, and the Shaman gripped the sides of Harry's head tight on either side of his eyes, and stared into them. The Shaman began chanting, each syllable and intonation curling around the hut and Harry's ears like warm water, and he felt the flow of power as it touched him.

The fire grew, a long tongue rising into the air, licking the top of the hut without damaging it. It flickered and, pointing to The Shaman, grew a deeper red, sparks and wisps beginning to encircle them both. The fire crept back down, and the rest of the flames blossomed, white-hot and burning.

The incense burned Harry's senses as the heat burned his skin. All light but the fire seemed to fade away, which grew brighter still. "Spirits!" The Shaman chanted, eyes wide in frenzy, staring at something that only he could see. Harry felt himself turn oddly light, as if all his weight was being lifted from him. Colours blended together, and as he began to feel a strange tingling travel up his spine, The Shaman tightened his grip on Harry's head, and pulled him into the fire.

To Harry, there was a sudden silence.

It was dark. Thick, warm air smoothed its way through Harry's mind, and despite his eyes being closed, he could see shapes start to form. Something blue and wispy flew towards him, tendrils reaching out and ensnaring his senses. The blue darkened to black, and turned sleek. Something formed – a beak? A tail? And two wide-spread wings flapped, tips touching as it approached him. The spirit crow's eyes – for now, Harry could tell that's what it was – flickered between bright blue and bright green, before turning white with a whisper of something more.

The spirit sparked and crackled, falling partially into wisps of shadow and mist. Deep down, Harry could feel the judgement, and the weight of knowledge and power rested on his soul. The crow judged him worthy, and with descending darkness, merged with Harry's spirit. The chime of bells rang in his ears, and a strange rattling seemed to echo throughout the dark land. As the rattle grew louder and more piercing, the darkness turned to blue and then white. He grew heavy once more, and as the numbness left his body, he opened his eyes.

Above him, the Shaman smiled. With gentle arms, he lifted Harry – from where he'd fallen atop calm embers and burnt logs – to rest on the bed. With a damp cloth, the man dabbed his forehead, wiping away the sweat and paint, and the blood that smeared from his freshly swollen scar. Harry, feeling out of breath, looked up at him with wide, fearful, confused eyes.

"The fire moved with you," The Shaman began, settling down next to the now put-out fire. "It formed the shape of a bird." He lifted his totem, "I am a fish. Shaman from the under world. You are bird, Shaman of the over world. The messengers have blessed you; your connection with the spirits is strong."

"Shaman…?" Harry gasped, disbelief strong. He couldn't be a Shaman, he wasn't anything special. Shamans weren't freaks; they were magical beings, important to the continued survival of any tribe. "I'm not a Shaman."

"No, you're not," The man said, shifting through his supplies. With a hum of satisfaction, he brought out a crudely carved pot, and brought it over to Harry. He dipped one hand in, and then quickly, with another mutter to the spirits, took it out and with it, smeared down the contents of it over the right half of the boy's face. "Not yet. You are my apprentice."

Whatever had been in the jar was slightly cold, and Harry felt it drying quickly on his skin. He touched it, and his finger came away light blue. Looking back up into the other man's eyes, he tried to understand what had just happened. The shaman took a chisel and a small rock, holding it out for the boy. "Come," he beckoned, "You make your totem now."

And Harry took it, knowing that his life had just changed. Drastically.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**The Fifth**

**Chapter Two**

Harry no-longer lived with Mama Mudiwa, although she still acted like his mother. She would often go around to the Shaman's hut, where he now stayed, to check up on him and chat, patiently correcting any mistakes he made. Harry missed her, but he was too busy with his new studies to dwell on it.

He woke before The Sun, in order to not only observe The Sun's ascent, but to worship it; to ask for guidance; and to pick the plants under its morning gaze. It was learnt that every morning, The Sun would kiss awake each leaf; and it was his job, as a Shaman, to tend to them, and take them when they were ripe. These particular plants cured sickness of the stomach, an ailment that often struck their population. He would learn of symbols to invoke strength, fertility, growth, health, and even how to create his own to accent any aspect of any living thing. He learnt how to speak to the spirits, to leave his physical body and enter their world to speak with the messengers; he learnt how to strengthen not only his body, but his mind against the spirits, so as to not lose himself in the under or over world. As his own spirit had taken the form of a Crow, he could access the spirits much easier and faster than his teacher, even during his early years of learning. And he kept on learning, even as he grew into a young adult; and it wasn't just his Shaman duties that consumed him. He also continued to learn how to use spears, fire, darts, axes and sharp knives.

When he was fourteen, he went on his first hunt. As a Shaman, he painted half of his face blue, as was a sign of the spirit and tribe he belonged to, rather than the traditional hunting patterns and colours. It was believed that as a Shaman, he would bring luck to the group, and whilst normally the Shaman would only bless the hunting group, as he was young and still learning, it was thought better to utilize his skill practically. His skin had tanned over the years, so he didn't need as much paint to mask him against the surroundings, although he was covered in more of it than the other men. His muscles were lean and taught as he carried the spear he had crafted by hand, and blessed under The Sun; with this weapon, he knew, he would be taking the life of his brothers and sisters, the great black cats and whatever other animal crept into their path. He blessed his and the rest of the group's spears to help guide their spirits across into the next world, and made a short prayer before they set off.

The hunt was exiting; the feeling wormed its way through his senses, leaving him heady in anticipation. Every step moved with the landscape around them, bodies flowing low and long and lean; They moved as one with each breath of the world, and all too soon they had sight of their prey. It was five times larger than a man was wide, with four legs that stood strong against the ground. Its height was that of a full grown man of the tribe, although on its back legs it could tower over even the chief. Coal-black fur blended with the shadows, each strand glistening with moist morning dew. Its face was sturdy and wide, a long maw gaping with sharp rows of fangs. Yellow eyes pierced through the wilderness, and a long tail flicked with nervous tension. They moved, and the ears perked up and the whole beast froze, body taught and ready to spring.

They sprang first, spears whistling through the air, led by stone that could have felled it in one swoop. Their brother, the big black cat, leapt away, only to find itself cut off by the herding skills of their group. It hissed and spat, gums showing as it roared with agitation. As they backed the creature into a tree, it began to panic, and chose the weakest link to break.

For one moment, Harry stared into the eyes of the beast as it lunged in his direction. The whole world stilled, each movement slowing. Only the sound of his breath, and the blood pounding in his ears kept his attention, and with a deliberate gesture, rammed his spear straight ahead at an upwards angle. A great weight rocked his body and he fell to his back, the wind knocked out of him; the world spun, dust kicked up and his vision swam, colours blurring. For a moment, everything was quiet, and then the whole world settled and righted itself. A gasping crackle of dying life wheezed above him, and as his eyes stared up into that of the panther, crimson rivulets rolled down his spear and wet his hands. The beast had plunged itself onto his weapon, as he had managed to angle it to pierce its heart. It didn't die instantly, and the beast still shook slightly, although with each passing second it seemed to grow heavier and more lifeless. The pupils dilated and the eyes rolled back, jaw hanging slack as blood spilled from the gaping maw. His fingers slipped over the blood that had coated them, and the beast fell on him in its last throes of death.

The hunting group rolled the beast off him and helped him up, and as he brushed of the dirt, the other men cheered, grateful for the blessings of the gods. Harry placed his hand upon the creature's eyes, closing them as he whispered in prayer for his lost brother. He broke off the largest fang, and clutched it tightly in a bloody fist; as a Shaman and his first kill, the pelt would probably go to him. But now, it was not the time to celebrate. There was still more hunting to do.

* * *

As the years, passed, Harry learnt and grew strong with the tribe, far taller than any other man or woman. His hair was long and hung about his face, green eyes piercing through the blue paint, complimenting the now white cloth he wore. His features were sharp, the structure prominent (the reflection of his nose gave a frightful resemblance to a horse-faced woman of his youth. What was her name? Petal? Parsnip?). As the years passed, the world grew warmer, until even winter itself was no-longer recognisable through large temperature changes alone. He had been curious about this, and so had travelled to the white lands, only to find everything there wetter and less white. Years passed quickly to him, as each generation of the tribe grew under his guidance, and eventually, the white lands were no more. Harry had lost count of how many 'winters' he'd witnessed, as he continued to live, and eventually not age. All those that he knew; Jelani, mama Madiwa, his sisters; all of them had gone, replaced by their children, and their children's children. Much to his great confusion and sorrow, no woman had been able to bare his child, and as the years passed still, it seemed more likely that none ever would. The rest of the people had also wondered about his static state, but as he was Shaman, they knew it to be a message from the spirits. Harry had been brought to them, and it seemed that he would not be taken away. These had become his people; Harry was happy here, and knew that he would do all in his power to protect them. Each year he grew stronger in his Shaman magic, and didn't think he'd ever meet a Shaman that could match him.

Years and years passed, and yet he still stood unchanging, as the harsh climate matured him, as he saw each death of a loved one, their passing marked only by the winding smoke that guided their ashes to the above world. Those years were hard; He hadn't cried when Mama Mudiwa finally died at the age of 32, but something inside of him had broken, and cracked a little more when each of his sisters followed the same fate. Even his teacher died, and the pressure of survival fell onto his shoulders alone. Instead of shirking, he grew stronger to meet it; and knew that he was strong enough to overcome any challenge. He took on an apprentice of his own, and taught him how to face the same challenges that he himself had met.

Unfortunately, it wasn't anything human that challenged him. It was the very gods themselves.

**7, 758 BC**

The spirits had left him troubled.  _'They're coming, they're coming for you,'_ they would whisper at night, chills crawling down his spine as flashes of these strangers came to him. In his dreams he caught glimpses of twisted small snakes that writhed within darkness and revelled in it. He saw the faces of men with glowing eyes and rasping, two-toned voices, with a weight to their presences that both instilled in him the desire to serve (lest he be struck down), and the desire to flee. He saw strange buildings and objects on lands with two suns, and the expanse of the darkest pit in the heavens. He awoke with a sweat-drenched brow and a weary premonition that told him that all was not right in the world, and that the peace he had enjoyed for so many years was coming to a frightful, drastic end.

They came when it was dark. He'd been tending to the moonlight crop when a dark shadow passed over their city; it rumbled, traversing through his very bones and causing the earth itself to tremble. He looked up, startled, to find the moon blotted out in the sky; a monstrous shape loomed up above, a strange unearthly tumbling roar echoing throughout the lands. The roar became thunderous, waking everyone in the village. The people left their huts, only to fall to their knees in overwhelming shock. A dark shadow fell from the sky, and then a sharp blue light sped down, dispersing as several tall, dark-skinned men emerged. Their cloth looked coarse and stiff, thicker than anything Harry's people had ever worn. It looked to be like wood, but of a strange gleaming texture, more similar to their weapons than anything else. Gold emblazoned their foreheads in a symbol, and absently, Harry traced the lightning bolt that marred his own skin (strangely, every other scar he'd received had faded quickly).

The men spoke, sending chills down his spine, yet Harry overcame his bewilderment to stand in front of the otherworldly group. "What do you want? You are intruding on our lands, strangers," he asked, hoping that they spoke the same language.

"Your people belong to Cronus now. My Lord has blessed you with his choice."

Harry found himself glaring at those who had trespassed into the city. "And who is Cronus?" He asked, almost dreading.

"Cronus is your God," One of the men ordered, glowering in return.

"We already have our own Gods," Harry spat, insulted at their sheer tenacity. "Leave, you are not welcome here."

They made no move. "It was not a request. You will serve my Lord Cronus."

The same man that had glowered at him held up a shiny, sleek object. With a hissing whine that terrified everyone, white-hot fire flew from it, exploding a near-by hut. A woman screamed as the debris flew into her, and Harry felt a terrible rage overcome him.

"Leave!" He ordered again, white hot fury simmering beneath his skin. The man raised his fire-weapon again, but before he could do anything, Harry lashed out; not with his fists or his feet, but  _something_ welled up and out of him, whipping out and knocking the man quite a few feet backwards. The air crackled, and all the men froze. Unfortunately, so did Harry; so surprised was he to have used such a different form of magic (for he knew that's what it must be), a sudden exhaustion hit him, a feeling he likened to the first time he had entered and then left the spirit world. The men attacked him, and before he could replicate the same miraculous feat, something sharp hit him in the side, and his world blacked out to the sound of spears being thrown and the stranger's reinforcements appearing in yet more light.

* * *

Light, piercing and sharp, teased its way through his senses. Morning mildew and the sweet scent of grass tickled him, and as he awoke he felt heavy and groggy, still half immersed in slumber. He was in a large stone room, the only source of light coming from the crack between the door; there were no windows or bars. The faint sound of wailing grew louder as he became more aware, and he saw the many people around him. They were people he recognised; people from his village, although only half of the population seemed to be here. He tried to stand up to gauge how many of them were here, but as he moved, a cold weight on his feet dragged against the floor; strange stone was clutched against his ankles, joined together with what looked like a strange spine. It felt smooth, like the ore they sometimes found and melted and cut into jewellery, but otherwise like nothing he'd ever seen (memories from before his appearance in the white-lands flickered, but didn't hold enough strength to sway his memory). He could stand, but he couldn't walk; and as the realization that he and his people were trapped here dawned on him, the same rage that had preceded his blackout coursed uneasily beneath his skin. He was agitated, and only the smooth scrape and hiss of the door suddenly opening stayed his emotion, as his focus narrowed down.

The man that entered came as a stilted shock to Harry, and his mind sputtered to a halt. This man had white skin, just like him; the first white-skinned man he had seen since before he had arrived in the white lands. His mind, honed by years of practice in the mental arts of guiding and protecting himself within the spirit world, immediately brought forth the memories that niggled him, memories that he had obsessed over for many years. Would this man know of England? Harry tried to remember objects that he knew from England, in case the man knew of them also, but all he could remember were faces, like the harsh red one of his overweight uncle, moustache twitching, rolls of fat wobbling as the man's whole frame shook under a terrible rage.

Once sure they would not run, the man led them through a twisting, winding labyrinth of corridors (Harry tried to remember the way, but each looked just as strange as the next, and after a few minutes it all started blurring together). They were given strange clothes; softer than their own, but more constricting, lighter than any fabric they'd managed to produce. It wrapped around their torso and hips, clasped together by the same sort of gleaming smooth stone, this time shaped liked the sun. Harry looked at all his people – for that's who they were, even if it seemed only half of the whole village had actually been taken – and despaired. They were told that they were slaves now.

It was a strange land, with two suns and a strange, gritty soil. "Why are the stars so bright here?" Harry had asked when looking up at the night sky, but the native had laughed in his face. "They are not stars!" The man had said. "They are moons. This planet has as many as you have fingers." It was all so very wrong. There was only one sun, one moon, and the many spirits that guided him. Not this! Not this horrible land full of horrible people and horrible, slave-driven work!

Harry was whipped. They fed him little, but worked him hard. And work he did – day in, day out, and every night in between. He was not taught the language, nor educated to the same degree as his superiors, having been deemed nothing more than a useless slave since his very start here, after he'd acted rebellious and angry. The anger was still there, only it simmered beneath his skin, bubbling hotly and yearning to lash out. The only thing for him that marked the passing of time was how he recognised less and less people as the years wore on. His people's children still existed, but know them he did not; for they were not raised under his guidance and that of the spirits of the tribe, but instead impressed upon the teachings and culture of this land. They were taught to obey Cronus, their God. A God that took the form of a man and walked amongst them! It was preposterous. Harry did not recognise him as his sovereign; to him, glowing eyes and a raspy, duel-toned voice would never equal power. In the beginning, Harry had often attacked the guards in an attempt to escape, but their superior weapons, numbers and knowledge of the land would always cause his attempts to fail, and he would be thrown into solitary for however many weeks it took for him to stay quiet.

Despite this, Harry still grew strong. He had a strange affinity for languages, and found himself understanding the spoken word within the first few months, and able to speak it himself not long after. Eventually, those that had first captured him were no-longer living, and he found himself free from their prejudice. He was hard-working, and soon found himself getting more and more privileges (however meagre they may be).

Harry cried when he found out that he was no longer on his own planet. Despair gripped him, and it was all he could do to still the tremors that shook from his frame and caused the ground to rumble. With self control that was tightly wound and developed over years and years, he managed to reign in his magic; it was not time for anyone else to find out about it. He was still too weak; he needed a way off the planet first, before he could ever risk being found out. He watched and waited, and found that the only way he could leave would be through the Chappa'ai, a giant ring of stone that, when activated, captured the waters of the very universe itself, and had the power to transport any person any where.

Harry worked through the years of slavery. Eventually, he was made the servant of a nobleman's house, where he had access to books and could eavesdrop on the conversations of those with more knowledge than he. Slowly, he learnt to read as well as write, in the many languages he came across. After having lived for so many years, he was passed around from place to place, until he'd been deemed loyal enough to be granted full citizenship.

The first day of his so-called freedom was bittersweet. He paid respects to his long-lost people and the spirits, although there was little they could do for him here. He lay low and carried on learning – architect, blacksmith, scribe, librarian, teacher… He had lifetimes to experience them all, that and more. He practiced his magic in secret, and waited.

**6, 842 BC**

It had taken a long time to get used to this planet. The culture seemed incredibly advanced; the language, the structure of the society, the architecture… Even now, Harry found himself writing (actually writing – an art form he thought lost long ago in his past, from what little he could remember). But this seemed different; here, you almost carved out the words into tablets, each syllable represented by a harsh line. Harry fancied himself an intellectual man, and so took his place in society. The morning light found him bent over his tablets, writing tools in hand, as he wrote about Cronus.

_DU-PU2-RE,_ he wrote;  _ruler, master_.

_PO-TO-KU-RO PA-DE,_ he wrote further;  _grand God_. *

Fervent footsteps interrupted his concentration, and a little boy ran into his study. Harry recognised him; he was a descendent from one of his people, and enjoyed listening to Harry's stories of spirits and ancient tribal magic. He was a servant boy, just like all the others with dark skin. Harry had hope for him, however; whilst the dark colour had yet to be "bred out" of him, he was still quite light skinned. If he married a white woman, it was likely that their children would not be forced to be servants.

"Hermokrates!" The boy gasped out between pants, bent over as his hands pressed into his knees for support as he regained his breath. Harry took a moment to appreciate this lifetime's name: Hermokrates, derived from power, and the messenger of God; a little nod to his spiritual form of the overworld.

"What is so desperate boy, for you to disrupt my study?"

The boy's face went white. "It's – It's my Lord Cronus, sir. He asks for you."

"Asks for me?" Hermokrates repeated, a sudden thrill of panic lancing its way through his system. He knew he'd spent too long here – almost a thousand years! It was a very, very long time – long enough for him to learn all he needed to. But it was strange; with this seemingly ever-lasting life, he'd found it almost too easy to just wile away the time. He'd been everything; carpenter, blacksmith, guard, artist, scribe, scholar, teacher, and far more than he could count on all his fingers and toes; all made easier by how he'd learned to control the age of his appearance with his magic.

When deciding to be a blacksmith for a lifetime, he'd become younger – the age of a babe, and placed himself in a nursery. It was thought that a young woman had borne him, but gotten scared at being a mother and had quickly abandoned the boy. When he'd tried to change his appearance – like making his black hair blond – absolutely nothing had happened. It seemed like he could do anything with his appearance, as long as he didn't leave the boundaries of his own original form. Each lifetime had lasted at least fifty years.

At the moment, he looked to be in his mid thirties; almost exactly the same age that he would be if left alone, the age he'd originally stopped aging. He knew it was too good to last – Cronus had obviously noticed a man of the exact same appearance too many times to consider it a mere coincidence or quirk of genetics (hoping that time slipped by an immortal being like it did for him was perhaps too much to ask for). He had only posed as his own son once, when he'd had a career that involved fighting, a frontline guard, as he could create something to resemble a babe in his own home before faking his death (a valiant one, obviously – died to protect his comrades from wild beasts), and then being that infant itself. But this had only happened once, as he did not want to create a pattern.

"Does my Lord Cronus wish to see me now?"

"Yes, Hermokrates. I fear it seemed to be a terribly serious matter."

"Thank you for informing me; keep an eye on my work while I'm gone, won't you?"

"Yes, sir."

Harry, despite all his misgivings, made his way to the temple. If Cronus knew the truth, then there would be guards covering his every possible escape route; to move now, suddenly, would mean not mean capture, as he was too skilled to be caught, but he would have had the Chappa'ai disabled to prevent his use of it. While Cronus may have been a false God in Harry's eyes, he knew that Cronus was still a smart being. It would not do to underestimate him.

A man, younger than his own appearance, was waiting for Harry by the large stone temple steps. He followed the servant that guided him, until he entered a large, splendid room deep inside the temple. There was a gold undertone, a mystic shimmer to the very walls themselves; walls that stretched up almost into the heavens. White columns rose with them, standing large and strong; across every surface was artwork, patterns, gold-inlaid swirls.

To the far back of the room, on a raised dais, upon a throne bedecked in equal elegance, sat Cronus. The man was tall and pale-skinned, with long curly rich light brown hair that fell to his shoulders. His forehead was large, his eyes small in comparison; he looked untrustworthy, mean, and cruel. Harry wondered why anyone could believe such a human-looking man could possibly be a god. Behind him, on either side, stood some of the god's most loyal, hardened soldiers; Jaffa, they were called, with their metal armour and caps. They held spears, although from painful experience, Harry knew that these 'spears' were far beyond their time. They were not thrown, but instead energy, the likes of which he was still getting used to, would propel from the end. The Jaffa had gold emblems on their foreheads, bearing the mark of their master, Cronus.

As the man – the god – looked down upon Harry, his eyes glowed yellow; golden, perhaps, as they reflected the richness of the temple.

"Hermokrates, it is a pleasure," Cronus began, hands folding neatly under his chin. The duel-toned, raspy, deep voice sent a shiver down Harry's spine. He bowed, low.

"My Lord," He responded, before looking back up at the being. "You wished to speak with me?"

"Yes, yes," said Cronus, as his eyes seamed to bore into Harry. He got the strangest feeling that he was being examined, evaluated. The being's eyes seemed to rake Harry's form and look into his soul.

"I have been told that you are my wisest subject, Hermokrates. That you are just, strong, and my willing servent."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Hmm," Cronus mused, "You strike a tall figure. Imposing, with such strong, wicked features." A smile – cruel though it was – cut through his mouth. "You have been blessed, Hermokrates. For I, your god, have entrusted you with a task most holy and divine."

"I thank you, my Lord."

Cronus waved his fingers, and one of the Jaffa approached, carrying an ornate box. It was a dark mahogany, with gold winding across each corner. The lid seemed firmly atattched, and as Cronus took it, he beckoned Harry to come closer.

As he did so, he looked at the box, the details becoming sharper. Writing, elegant and sharp, displayed itself across the top, saying one word only.

Zeus.

That was no word Harry had ever come across before; what did it mean? He wondered, almost feverish in anticipation. Nothing like this had ever happened before. No other had been entrusted with anything from their God. This chilled Harry's very bones; Cronus was not a benevolent god. Any task entrusted by him was not to be underestimated.

Harry held the box close to him, peering down, before looking back at Cronus with confusion. "I do not understand, my Lord. What is it you whish for me to do?"

Cronus smiled again. "You are a blessed one, Hermokrates. You have been chosen to host one of the very gods themselves."

"Host?" Harry asked, dread pooling down his spine.

"Not just any god, Hermokrates; you will become the body of my own son."

Before Harry could react – even  _think_  to react – the false god's arm sped forward, opening the latch.

In the split second before it moved, Harry caught sight of what was inside the box. It was small, grotesque, and snakelike. It leapt, and the next thing he knew, his neck was burning.

It burrowed into his spine; the fire spread to every tip of his body. He screamed – this was worse than anything he'd ever felt before! He heaved, he gasped – fell to the floor, writhing –

… And then something unexpected happened.

Beneath his skin, where no eyes could see, a spark lit up in his system. A jolt – of what could only be a strange sort of lightning – lit up through his body, with only one intention. Fix the hurt. Fix the damage. Destroy the intruder.

In the back of his head, a strange wailing sounded; he thrashed; he seizured; every limb out of his control. The lighting attacked, and the snake-like creature burned. It screeched – a sound he heard throughout every cell in his body –

Beneath his skin, a raging storm of power crashed; magic, immortal, and Goa'uld ferociously attacking in a circular passion. He screamed – voice hoarse, deepening, gaining a raspy thrill of duel toned quality – eyes flashed between green, lightning blue and sickening yellow –

Something inside of Harry broke.

And he died.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Fifth**

**Chapter Three**

Blackness loomed, the edges of his vision blurring. A pounding pain blossomed ferociously from his head, lancing down his spine so fast and hard it left his toes tingling. For one, horrendous moment, he was nothing. He was no one – no memories, nothing at all; no name, no family, no home. His mind was blank.

And then… Slowly, something seemed to seep into his brain.  _Zeus_ , it whispered, all languid and tantalizing; it smeared down his soul, an infection of the blackest kind. It felt –  _wrong_ , somehow, but the force of it covered everything else. Something – something magical and old – screamed silently, until it was smothered wholly by  _Zeus_.

He woke in the sarcophagus. And all he knew was Zeus.

He felt like he had been living in a dank, dark cave, and had suddenly ventured into the open fields; the world seemed obvious to him now, the universe full of vast possibilities. He knew what he was – a Goa'uld, a parasite; and had taken this body as a host, and taken the original body by force. He knew, because his memory – his genetic memory – contained everything his father, Cronus, had known, and his father before him. Although 'Father' was a rather loose description, as no one saw Goa'uld children as  _children_  because of the memories implanted into them from birth.

Although, not everything was right; he knew, as part of a symbiotic relationship, that he should have had complete access to the memories of his host, and that the man – what was his name again? – should still be there in the subconscious somewhere. And yet… There was nothing. He wondered, also, why he couldn't feel his own body – that of a twisted snake wrapped around the spinal chord of the human – but instead felt more in control of the man than any other Goa'uld had before him (he kept these thoughts to himself, knowing that should word get out that he wasn't quite a normal Goa'uld, his people would kill him without hesitation). He thought that maybe he was just more integrated with the host, but didn't think into it further. It wasn't like he didn't have all of the Goa'uld characteristics; with just a thought, he could make his eyes glow a sickening yellow and speak with the double tone timber of his species.

And yet, somehow, a feeling of wonderment and awe overcame him whenever he thought of the universe as a whole; as if some part of him was completely knew to it all, and could hardly believe that such feats were possible – like the spaceships shaped like the pyramids, life on distant planets, whole colonies of humans taken from the bountiful Earth... (A strange anger welled up at the thought, righteous in its fury.)

He was a God. Why would he feel angry at such actions? His people were more advanced. They knew what to do with the technology; they had superior knowledge; they were a superior race. To take control and invade - they had the right, surely? After all, the people on Earth were primitives. Useless, weak, stupid. (A different kind of anger welled up; one of darkness, and a bloodthirsty need to  _dominate_ ).

He knew things now, after all, despite being young, knowledge swept through him, and he rejoiced. Technology, strategy; it was all there, it was his to take. No stupid ape deserved his godly mercy. They would be blessed to even serve him! He laughed as he lay in the sarcophagus, as years and centuries and millennia of slimy, twisting, putrid darkness weighed upon his soul.

* * *

"Ah. There you are, my son."

"Yes, my Lord?"

Cronus swept into the great, expansive library, finding Zeus alone in the room with a large pile of books beside him. "You always seem to be here."

"Yes, my Lord; I am young yet, and so find it necessary to complement my knowledge with a greater expanse of things."

Cronus scowled as he saw what the other was reading. "Languages, Zeus? These are useless. The only language we need to speak is that of power; one that every race, no matter the planet, understands."

"I do understand, my Lord," acquiesced Zeus, "However, I seem to be apt at absorbing languages far more than the average being. It is enriching, and better ables one to understand other cultures; are we not more apt at impressing our dominance against the primitive races with greater affect if we know which areas of their culture to target?"

Cronus was silent for a few moments, staring at Zeus with an unreadable expression. "An adequate reason, my son; but do not get carried away. You were merely lucky that your host's brain is so apt at processing information. Your next host will likely not be so fortunate."

"Yes, my Lord," bowed Zeus, going back to his books as Cronus left the library. He let out a low, relieved sigh; his ability in languages was another one of those rather odd things about him. It seemed that his mind was as fertile as a newborn. If babes and toddlers were surrounded by a language, they were able to extract the rules of grammar and then progress through the stages of language development until they could speak it fluently (1). Whilst this process normally took years, for him it seemed to only take months, and he had only found out by accident. In the years he had been in this host, he had taken to observing the people; he found them oddly fascinating. There was a group of servants whose language was unknown to him, but after two months of listening to their conversations without a translator (for he found the lilt of their language pleasing), he realized that he had started to understand some of the words. Another month later, and he had been able to say them himself in correct context, and a month after that, his understanding of the language matched that of Goa'uld, his native language. He had somehow become fluent without even realizing it! The possibilities were wide and intriguing. Would this ability spread, not just from the languages that humans spoke, but that of all species? Even those most unhuman? After all, it seemed possible; could he not already distort the vocal chords of this primitive ape? Being able to flex the different angles of speech so fluently could only be helpful in the long run, he thought. Lord Cronus might not see the ability at all useful – what with translators – but the idea did indeed intrigue Zeus. After all, what if he were to be stranded on a primitive planet without anything at all? It would be better to be prepared.

Zeus didn't realize that his innovative way of thinking – despite not being all that shocking – was his first step to differing himself to the Goa'uld.

* * *

A dull boom pounded through the wind, vibrating through the ground. Wrenching screams and yells and cries of war split the air and tore it asunder. Hordes of people – defenders –  _weak, pathetic mortals_  – attacked as best they could, but were cut down so fast heads were still left spinning. They were too primitive; they had no chance of escape or survival against an army of Jaffa. Blood spilt and swept the ground, staining the earth a horrid dark, pulsating brown. Zeus raised his hand, and with a mere thought, a pulse of devastation fired from the golden contraption that wrapped its way up his arm.

Cronus guided his armies throughout the galaxy, conquering whole planets and civilisations in his wake, Zeus close behind. Cronus taught Zeus of horror, and terrible dictatorship. Cronus taught Zeus how to be a god; vengeful and cruel. Not that Zeus was a trusted ally; those that allied themselves to him only did so once they had pledged themselves to Cronus, first. Zeus was only the back-up plan; to avenge Cronus if he fell, to do his bidding in a way that no mere human could. Zeus was at the forefront; he led the armies. No other Goa-uld experienced such successful battle. But then, no other Goa-uld had ever put another in charge of battle in such a way. Zeus was more than just a general; as the son of their God, he was to be revered. He was a token of the all-consuming power that a Goa'uld such as Cronus could wield, and the jaffa – upon seeing just how  _capable_ he was – were all that more subservient because of it. (To be under the near-constant  _direct_  rule of such a 'divine being' reaffirmed their faith. Surely they must be blessed, they thought.)

As another native of the planet died gasping and flailing under his power, a cold chill of satisfaction wound up his mind. Anger coiled through his mind, hand in hand with such venomous, putrid thoughts; he was a God, he thought. How dare these pathetic primitives even dare to stand against him? Zeus decided that they would die; every single last life form on this planet. (After all, they did not  _need_  the people to mine the planet for naquadah. There were hundreds of others that would fall to his feet for the honour of serving him).

Power hummed once more through the ribbon device, but as he channelled his anger – something fizzled and sparked inside of him, welling up and out and powering the technology. A wave of devastation swept over the battlefield. The Jaffa pushed forward. By the time a bloody sun was finally laid to rest, silence held the world to its bosom, and Zeus  _smiled_.

* * *

The sarcophagus was pristine; every shape gleamed to perfection. Power hummed underneath the polished surface. Zeus lay down in it, and not for the first time; and, like all the times before this one, it _did. Not. Work._

He snarled, lashing out against the base of it in rage. Why! It was brand new – what was  _wrong_  with this machine? Why did it not affect him? Why was it  _broken..._?

But it  _wasn't_  broken. Zeus had killed a slave and placed him in the machine – once activated, it had healed the man perfectly (although Zeus did promptly kill and destroy the body once the experiment was over). He'd snuck into his father's own chambers and tried that one too, but still the result was frustratingly the same. It all lead to one conclusion – the machine wasn't broken.  _He_  was broken.

Or at least, something wasn't altogether right about him. Like how he couldn't exactly feel his snake-like body (it was more a phantom impression than anything else), and how the mind of his host was still completely unknown to him.

He stewed about it for days. Years.  _Centuries_. The aggravation pushed him forward, and on some level found himself being more cruel and harsh at times than even Cronus (Was he compensating? Did he feel like he needed to mentally be the personification of a Goa'uld, if he didn't feel like it physically?)

Zeus found things to obsess about, to consume his thoughts, not sparing even a moment to begin contemplating the enigma. He once spent a whole month doing nothing but reading the entire library that belonged to Cronus (thankfully, he could access it all on a datapad, making it easier for him to carry around the wealth of knowledge and avoid being interrupted). For a decade, he spent every night in meditation. The days were filled with strategy and planning and punishing those that didn't meet his strict orders and requirements. Some of his strange fixations were somewhat unusual – he developed a craving to taste every inhibiting beverage that he could find (developing a taste for the liquids starched from wheat fermentation). Had an almost obsessive compulsion to stain his body blank, going weeks at a time unable to wear anything but pure white.

One particular obsession of his was secret; deadly to him, if Cronus ever found out. Once, when shifting through tomes written by the natives of a recently raided planet, he cut himself – quite ridiculously – by accidentally sliding his finger against the razor-sharp edges of the rather heavy, grey paper. As he cursed, he watched – quite fascinated – as blue lightning sparked over the mark. Once it died down – it had only appeared for a second – he wiped the pad of his thumb against the inside of his mouth, looking down at it again now that the blood had gone, seeing that the mark had healed itself.

What  _was_ this strange phenomena? He'd never heard of beings having lightning beneath their skin. It was not a Goa'uld trait; it was unique. Different. Despite the hazards – oh, how he now despised anything that set him out as different – he felt like he  _had_ to find out more about it. Did it only heal? What kind of injuries did it heal? To what degree?

He spent a long, long time losing himself to this obsession; working on it whenever he had time to himself and was completely alone. With a cool, detached demeanour developed only through years of practice and years and years of Goa'uld breeding, he methodically experimented on his own body. He stabbed; he burnt; he gassed; he poisoned. He caused himself fatal wounds; he even amputated a finger. Every time, it healed back to the exact state that it had been before. (Although he never tried decapitation, fearing the consequences of severing his connection to his host's spinal cord).

He began to wonder about the strange, lighting power, about the origins and how it worked. He'd realized in quite a short time after first discovering it that it belonged to his host, but still selfishly kept it to himself. Why inform Cronus of an advantage? A useful skill was only an advantage as long as it was kept secret. (He never dared trying to capture it in a machine or analyse a blood sample; there were too many ways that the data could fall into someone else's hands).

Zeus also wondered if the lighting could be harnessed, without the need for the natural reaction. He cut himself many times over, holding on to the lightning for as long as possible, keeping it fresh and crackling above his skin for longer than it needed to. It progressed in stages; at first, he managed to draw out the healing process, trying out different ways; varying the potency of the lightning and managing to slow down the healing process altogether. He couldn't make it stop entirely – but he  _could_  delay the lighting from starting to work for at least five minutes. (The longer he delayed it the harder it was. He knew that even if he lived until the end of the universe, he would never be able to stop it entirely, but that didn't stop him from trying to lengthen the time even if it  _would_ take centuries and millennia more of practice).

He combined this with other experiments; kept the lightning present, while it did not heal anything at all. And then came his breakthrough – what he spent a long long time working on. He managed to draw out the lighting without cutting himself at all. It felt  _wrong_. At first it burned his skin and it  _hurtSOMUCH_. Out of control – it would lance from him, dizzyingly and sporadically. Volatile, outside of his skin without a purpose – it attacked him, would pierce his very pores and stop and start and stop and re-start every organ in his body; it reached out to the technology around him, sparks dancing across the wires and shorting out every fuse. Things exploded; big explosions, sometimes small bursts of smoke.

He lost himself to his obsessions. He held a shard of lighting in his hands.

* * *

One day, Cronus was in a ferocious mood; the worst, in fact, that Zeus had ever seen him in. The man snarled a spitting rage, eyes glowing a poisonous yellow. He roared, punching his technologically enhanced fist against a wall, the impact creating a crater. "Those apes! Those primitive, worthless mortals! How dare they!  _How dare they!"_

"My Lord?" Zeus asked, cautiously. What in the universe could have caused such distress?

Cronus turned to him, pointing a ribbon-device clad finger at him. "You.  _My son._ You must go, now – go to the Tau'ri home world. They dare!  _They dare –_ "

Seeing a pattern emerging, Zeus hastily cut him off. "What happened? Hasn't one of the system lords been staying there? Surely  _he_ can handle the problem?"

"That  _is_ the problem!" Shouted Cronus. "Ra cannot handle the problem because he is no longer there – the Tau'ri have driven him off, somehow."

Zeus still frowned. "Then he is a weak Goa'uld, if he is unable to handle mutiny from a race so underdeveloped compared to us. We managed perfectly well when we were at the planet."

Cronus sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Yes. I believe that none of the other Goa'uld are going to deal with the problem for those very reasons; after all, they have already taken plenty of Tau'ri, and do not feel the need to embroil themselves with an irritating matter that is obviously beneath them."

"Then why are you so embroiled with rage, Father? Like them, we have already taken many Tau'ri from that world."

"Yes. Yes." He snarled then, eyes flashing once more. "The others may not think anything of the incident, but I cannot stand such a slight! The impudence of those mortals – to dare stand against their God is blasphemous. I cannot let such a slight go unpunished." He paused, staring straight at Zeus. "Like the other Goa'uld, I am far too busy to become involved. Unlike the other Goa'uld, I have you."

Zeus startled, "Me, my Lord?"

"You will find out what happened with that uprising; I must know how the Tau'ri drove Ra away. Such a weapon or strategy would be invaluable, and it would be best that we are aware of such matters, in case it is used against us also." Cronus paused then, looking at something only he could see, before a smirk twitched his face. "Yes, you will also check on our...  _civilisation_. I'm curious to see how far the Tau'ri progressed from my specific influence, and how well they remember their Gods. Do they still revere us? Fear us?" He laughed, "Rightfully so, they should still be praying to us."

Cronus fixed him with a piercing stare. "There is, of course, one specific reason why only you, and you alone can be sent to investigate the planet. Do you remember the coordinates?"

That was a surprising question, but he answered dutifully nonetheless. "Yes Father, but would not using the Chappa'ai be a better method of travel?"

"For you who remembers everything, space-travel is, at the moment, the better option. I have tried dialling the planet, but no connection has been possible. I am aware, however, that for a long period you focused intensely on maps of the universe, travelling to each planet through the Chappa'ai, spending years of research to committing each address and individual universal location to memory."

Zeus was slightly surprised at how much Cronus understood of his ventures. During that particular moment of his life, he'd become obsessed with travel, enthralling as it was. And strangely, the thought persisted to him; what if he had no Chappa'ai? The thought seemed ridiculous, of course; there were always Chappa'ai, made by the ancients. Still, the idea that he might one day be stranded on a planet without one haunted him. It had been known to happen; had actually happened, once to a Goa'uld that had offended another, the other wishing the offender to suffer silently and alone for a long, long time. An edge of Zeus' mind detested Cronus; writhed in poison every time he was  _ordered_. The idea that he might be able to navigate the system with just a ship was very appealing. Like with his experiments with his abnormal innate power, he had written none of his research down, instead using his rather startling memory. (It seemed that he could not forget anything at all passed the point where he first took his host. Perhaps it counter-balanced the fact that his host's mind didn't seem to exist before it?)

"Good. Do not take any Jaffa; I am trusting you alone with this, my son. We do not know what kind of power the Tau'ri now wield. A large ship would undoubtedly be noticed; better, I think, to stay out of their awareness in that regard."

"Yes, my Lord." Zeus bowed, quickly leaving the room and straight to his chambers, immediately preparing himself for the journey. As he was unsure of how long he would stay, he packed a little of everything: clothes, books, weapons, technology.

The ship he took was slick and agile, small and barely noticeable against the backdrop of stars in the universe. As he entered, he rose the craft high above the atmosphere of Cronus' favourite planet,  _Olympus_ , and quickly inputted the coordinates. It took a while, formatting and re-formatting the system until it found the cluster of planets that were familiar. He zeroed in on one, and set it as his final destination. As the hyper-drive engaged, he set himself into a deep sleep that would last until his ship dropped out of hyperspace. Everything was running smoothly, and as he hooked himself up to the gear that would sustain his body for the journey, he took one last look at the blue and green planet before closing his eyes into a slumber.

He dreamed of men with painted bodies and dark skin; of huts, and birds and a strange, enthralling freedom within the colour blue. Ghosts of suburban sprawls whispered to his subconscious; the name  _Harry_  teasing the edges of his memory.

* * *

When Zeus awoke – the dredges of his dream fading quickly – it was not at any particularly set time. He frowned; what was going on? Blinking the drowsiness from his eyes – which in itself was odd, as he should have felt as fresh as a spring morning from the type of sleep he'd been in. A strange sense of anticipation sped through him, and something pulled at his senses – it was familiar in an odd, resonating way. Was that feeling what had awakened him?

Suddenly, the whole ship lurched, and dropped out of hyperspace with a jarring bang. The ship sped through space, twisting and twirling, the walls rattling – and as a planet neared him at frightening speeds, cracks spread across the view screen. He gasped, fingers nimbly clattering against the controls – only to realise that they'd somehow become disabled. But that was impossible – the ship had been perfectly fine when he'd left Olympus! Cronus himself had told him –

_Cronus_. The chilling realisation gripped him; before he'd left, his father had given him a cruel smile that lasted so little time he thought he might've imagined an involuntary facial twitch – right before the Goa'uld had told him how his best mechanics had already triple checked the ship, and that it was in perfect condition.

Zeus' hands gripped the sides of the ship as fire licked the metal and it began to superheat, rattling and groaning as it entered the planets atmosphere, the cracks thickening and spreading along the front. Horror sped through him as he finally understood the extent of Cronus' sabotage – he was about to crash land!

He had less than a minute to escape, and his thoughts went to his electric regeneration. No, he didn't want to risk it to greatly – the idea that he might somehow survive the explosion created from the impact was far too improbable. Quickly, he jammed his hands against the roof of the ship and  _concentrated_ – lightning sped out of his hands and went  _up_ –

And suddenly, he was freefalling.

The winds whipped him far away from his ship, up into the air as he tried to grasp onto  _something –_

In a bright, white, overwhelming flash and a sound so loud he couldn't pinpoint it, the ship crashed in an awesome explosion, the backlash slamming into him, sending him hurling across the landscape –

He focused on that inner power that sparked so suddenly; wanted, with all his hope, to somehow not be splattered miles around by the impact –

The ground came up to meet him –

"Oh shi –"

* * *

**4,433 BC**

He woke up to the smell of soup.

The lingering, spicy scent caressed his skin, followed by a smooth feminine humming. Slowly and carefully, he twitched each of his fingers and toes, and found to his delighted surprise that everything seemed to be in one piece, which was very nice as the last few seconds of consciousness that he remembered before waking up in this place were a bit of a nasty blur that really, he didn't want to look into much further.

As each sense began to register, a warm glow smeared across his eyelids, explained by the crackling of fire that he could hear quite close by. With much more effort than it really should have taken, he managed to prise an eyelid open, only to snap it quickly shut with a wince as the light burned; it wasn't even bright!

He tried to sit up, but at the slightest hint of tensing, his muscles gave out and he flopped back onto the straw-based bed with a groan; a deep, weary ache pervading every pore. A strange, sick feeling welled up the back of his throat; not a sign of oncoming vomiting, but more of a reaction to the simplest strain. He felt –  _impossibly_  weak.

There was a clattering sound – metal banging clumsily against metal – before soft, even footsteps made their way towards him; and the warm smell of soup grew stronger.

"Here," hushed a kind voice above his still form, "You need to regain your strength, Lost One." Fingers – long and rough from daily labour – opened his mouth, and a spoonful of soup quickly went by his swallowing reflex. It was slightly bland, though with a hint of interesting spices; yet there was not much more to it than water, and the slightest pulp of vegetables. It warmed its way down his throat, settling pleasantly in his stomach, filling a need he hadn't noticed was there.

A well of cold, sharp anger bubbled – he was being spoonfed! How degrading! How dare this mortal woman treat him like a child –

All that came out of him was a slight whimper; weaker even than the barest of groans that he'd managed before. In quick response, the hand that had been feeding him now rested in his hair, smoothing it down with fondness.

"I will feed you again tomorrow," she said, "and the day after that, and again until you get better. You need worry not, Traveller; I will take care of you."

He felt angered and humiliated at the idea of being  _taken care of_ , but mutinous thoughts muffled and muted out as the heavy drape of deep exhaustion smothered his senses.

* * *

It took many months for Zeus to recover; apparently, despite his age and great wisdom, being splattered against the ground took a lot more to recover from than even a lopped off limb. As the days passed, so did his anger; replaced instead by a strange curiosity towards his host.

"Why do you continue to nurse me so kindly, Alcmene?" (for that was her name; and a lovely one, at that.) He asked this one day, as she once again prepared him soup.

She had laughed at the question. "Why does anyone help anyone? Being kind does not necessitate reason."

As a god and a Goa'uld, he simply could not understand. "But from so many months spent working on me, you gain nothing!"

"I am not being helpful to obtain material gain. I do it simply because I can."

His curiosity grew for this woman; not only did her dark eyes reflect her wisdom, but complemented also her tall beauty. Even as he lay awake with eyes closed more often than not, he would find his increasing hours of conciousness spent listening to her gentle humming and clattering around outside the home. He learned that they were in a place called Dimini, about whose gods Alcmene would happily talk about, when asked.

Zeus had somehow been found by the very culture he'd been looking for! He was on the Tau'ri homeworld! On his first venture outside, leaning heavily on Alcmene and limping along quite dreadfully, he'd managed to see first hand how they'd developed; he was pleased to find that the lay of the land was still organised in six concentric circular enclosures; exactly how he'd designed it himself, years and years ago (what he didn't realise was that those particular shapes and sizes in that exact structure was an amalgamation of the Shaman teachings still in his subconscious, reinforcing prosperity, stability, fertility and growth).

As he grew bored, being unable to move around or stand for very long, Alcmene taught him pottery; she would mix it for him, then set him aside a slab of stone to work against, and afterward would show him how to delicately paint patterns on the hardened jugs and vases. He didn't think of himself as particularly artistic, but he could manage lines and simple paterns. He was a quick learner, although his hands were weak; vulnerable as he was in this strange state, he even caught himself laughing with her several times as he clumsily muddled the clay together. As her hands steadied his, it felt… Nice.

Around Alcmene, the horrid bitterness of his being seemed to subside, little by little; he felt himself distancing from it, as if it was and had always been some sort of superficial coating to his real person – although it still existed, deeply entrenched; only, around her, he found that he could ignore the twisted whispers of hate, death, and domination. He supposed that this sort of transition should never have come so easily, but something just out of his reach in his mind seemed to whisper that it was  _normal_  to feel at peace around another being; and that being…  _content_ … was a state that he'd long been familiar with (although was it possible to recognise qualities without remembering them?). Around Alcmene, he felt impossibly human.

* * *

It was dark when Zeus limped out of the Alcmene's home, rain now spitting against his face where it had been pouring only minutes ago. A shiver of apprehension laced each stunted step; Where was she? She hadn't returned to make him dinner just as the sun began to set, as she had done so every day before. She had never once been late. (He told himself that he was only out looking because it was unlikely that he'd find anyone else so patient and willing to continue to look after him).

"Alcmene?" He called out as he stumbled through the streets. He had to stop and pant and wince against a wall or hut every few minutes – the familiar, although less overwhelming weakness still aching through his bones. Heads turned away from him as he passed through the people; no-one wanted to look at the struggling man, draped in a heavy cloak. Was he ill (could it be contagious)? Was he injured (did he get into a fight)?

In the dark of the approaching night and the shadow of the walls on the edges of Dimini, he would have missed her but for the groan of his name against her lips.

Her body was splayed against the cold, wet, hard ground; her long blonde hair matted in disarray. Falling to his knees before her – she wasn't moving! – he grasped at her face, a red line from the sharp edge of a blade tracing across her collar bone. Close know as he was, he saw the smudges of dirt against her fair skin; the rips in her clothes, the tear-tracks staining her cheeks.

"Alcmene!" He gasped, horror gripping him still.

Her name moved her to open her eyes more fully; the deep brown lifting to meet his. "Heracles…?" She whispered, the false name he had given her; it crackled wanting against her breath, as if unsure of her reality; her eyes, glazed and unfocused, barely registered his presence. Something seemed broken about her; as if the very world itself had, in one, shocking moment, become irreparably incomprehensible.

A stark resolution overtook him, and with stubborn focus he forced the energy of his inner lightning to pierce through his muscles, despite knowing that such an action could only make his recovery last longer. With a heave – his muscles working so, so hard despite her frame being so delicate and light – he lifted her up by her arms and half embraced her, and together they stumbled back to her home.

Step after step he pushed himself – keep moving – almost there! – placing her gently atop the bed, before he followed suit and dropped boneless, panting, next to her. Slim fingers gripped his shirt and carefully he put his arm around her form that began to shake and shiver. Her warm body curled into his, and she wept.

* * *

"I think it might be a boy."

A gentle, hum of maternal fondness wrapped around the idea; but hearing her voice stained by such kindness made him grit his teeth in a snarl.

He asked her the same question, over and over again. "How can you love such an evil creature?" He'd already offered to kill it, many times. But over and over again, her answer, always strong and steady, was easy to come and refute his anger.

She would smile at him, as if  _he_  was the insane one. "Don't be silly, Heracles. Why would I blame this baby for what his father did? It's not the child's fault that he came from such evil; this child is pure, and a blessing found within horror."

Zeus would snarl; " _nothing_  spawned from such atrocity is ever a blessing!"

"No one is born evil, Heracles. I will cherish him, no-matter his beginnings."

He simply couldn't understand her; that horrid night that he had found her, alone and injured and lying in the rain, a man had taken her against her will and left her in that state. How could she care for the fruit of such trauma?

But again and again she would caress her stomach, each tone of her humming cutting deeply into his soul as her reasons clashed against the weight of something more. And as he was still stuck there, recovering; he found he could not run away.

* * *

She was an impossibility. She loved her unborn child; she loved the sound of fresh water pouring. She found joy in their banter, and peace in their long, winding discussions. But it was such a simple thing, when halfway through her pregnancy she laughed at his joke and he could not look away from the sparkle in her eye and the warmth in her smile. With one joke, he realised that he loved her; and with the next, as he interrupted it with warm hands that pulled her down and grasped her hands as he kissed her, it seemed so right that she would love him too.

He found her way of thinking colouring his own, until even the point where every time he chanced a look at her swelling stomach, he no longer saw the shadow of a cruel man, but the possibility of  _her child_ , and his love for her – such a feeling, an emotion he'd once mocked and thought little of – warmed him, and passed sweetly onto the babe as well. A month later, he married her; able to stand long enough for the holy man to give them his blessings. She was not his first wife, but she held the first place in his heart. He felt at peace, where the horror of his ancestors was muted and hidden, receding away.

As a marriage gift, he made for her a two-handled vase; reflecting her growing fertility, the shape was swollen but smooth; in his hands he cradled it, and worked more on this one piece than on any other. In the centre amongst the patterns of lines that worked around the vase, a lone spiral seemed wrapped within those very patterns; it was a symbol of the babe within her, protected by the red lightning he adorned on the edges (although she did not know of that particular meaning when he gifted it to her, and he was sorry that he couldn't find any blue). *

But Zeus had known from the very beginning that such good things could not last. One night as he slept beside his wife, despair gripped his mind. It began as all tragedies do; slowly, at first. A haze of blue crept through his dreams until it enveloped him completely; took hold of his very soul, and  _screamed_. He woke with the same sound wrenched from his throat, faded images of crows flying from his thoughts – and suddenly, without hesitation, he  _knew_.

Cronus was coming, and if he did nothing then Alcmene and her child would never be safe.

Knowledge that wasn't his own – premonition, a message from Gods, real gods – cursed down his spine as he arched, gasping, gripping the sheet; the faint sound of a woman yelling his name muddled its way through his mind, and the piercing yell –  _"HERACLES!"_  – snapped him aware so fast that when his body dropped back to the bed it felt as if he'd fallen from the sky.

It took minutes – time that drowned in the black of his subconscious – before his name, repeated over and over again found its way through again and he realised that it was really being said. Opening his eyes, he looked up to find Alcmene over him, one hand gripping his shoulder as the other caressed down his brow and through his beard.

"Oh, my love," she whispered, tears of empathy welling slightly in her vision. "I heard what you spoke in the throes of your dreams."

"What – what I spoke?" His voice was rasped and broken; the similarity to the double-timber of his true species causing him to wince.

She smiled, sad but understanding. "You have do go, don't you?"

Reaching for her, he sat up, staring into her eyes for what he knew to be the last time. Breath hitched in his throat as he tried, "I'm –"

He could go no further, but thankfully, she knew. "It's alright," she said, but he knew that it wasn't, not really. "The baby and I will survive," she continued, but her forced smile was so heartbreaking he almost broke down right there.

"Do you remember where I've put all the money?" And it was only the thought that he'd already provided for her that kept him from staying.

She laughed, like she did when they first met. "I remember; and I also remember there's more there than I, or my children, or my children's children will know what to do with, Heracles."

He looked down, and as he placed his hands on her stomach, he felt the words come stumbling out. "Zeus. My name; it's Zeus."

"I know," she said, causing him to look up with surprise and be met with a mischievious smile. "This isn't the first time you've spoken unawares. When I first found you, naked, alone; you spoke often, of your disconnected thoughts and memories."

"You've known, since back then? And yet still –"

"Yet still I love you. " Her hands pressed over his, "and I have said it before. I care not where one came from; only that now, with me, they are who they want to be."

He couldn't keep eye contact anymore, and bowed his head with grief. Staring instead at their joined hands, he realised he couldn't leave with out one last parting gift. Slowly but carefully, he traced what he somehow knew to be runes of power across her stomach; his fingers warmed as they caressed each sign of strength, or speed, into shape. And then his arms cradled her belly as he had once done with the vase, and he  _pushed_  –

Energy – power – unseen to her but felt through him, wound through his hand and into her womb, encircling and flowing through the growing child.

"There," he said, his voice a hushed whisper, "it is all that I know how to give. He will be my son in spirit."

"And he shall be your son in name, as well. Heracles…" a bubble of laughter danced with her tears, "it is a good name." **

"But Heracles –"

"Is the name that you chose, and the one I choose for him."

He looked once more into her beautiful dark eyes, and then, overwhelmed by emotion that still felt so foreign, he closed his own eyes and  _focused_.

Pressure, suddenly, squeezed him from every angle; breath stilled from his chest and his head ached and ached as the pressure grew and grew until –

\- a loud BANG, and he was gone –

\- and found himself in lands of unending white. Ice and snow swept for miles and miles around, broken only by the structure in front of him. It stood tall and strong, sleek and grey; all manner of technological hues, carved perfectly spherical. A Chappa'ai.

But how? His initial mission – as he know recalled – entailed of how the Tau'ri had managed to incapacitate their gate. This, however, seemed whole and untouched. For a brief, bewildered second, he wondered why he was here – before the ring began to move and the chevrons lined up. The waters of the universe exploded outwards, and out strode Cronus.

Unimaginable hate and anger and  _treachery heBETRAYEDUS_ clenched his fists as he snarled at the traitorous snake.  _"CRONUS!"_  came his cry of war, eyes aglow a sickening, beaming yellow.

Cronus looked back on him, startled, before a smug smirk darkly lit up his features. "Ah, Zeus. I had  _so_ hoped that you had died along with that ship."

" _Why_?" Zeus asked, "I am your son! I was loyal!"

Cronus sneered, "You are not my son in spirit. You've always seemed wrong, Zeus. I've always known that I need to kill you, but you have, after all, been rather useful over time. But it seemed like I'd allowed you alone for long enough; and I didn't want to cause myself any undue trouble over your death. Sabotage was the simplest option."

"But the Tau'ri –"

"Are of no great interest in me,  _boy_. My being here now is… Well, a rather pleasant surprise; either way, a god can never have too many slaves."

The very idea of  _him_  even  _touching_  Alcmene boiled his blood.

Cronus laughed, deep and cruel; "I do not owe you any explanations, Zeus."

As he opened his mouth to taunt him more, something inside Zeus  _snapped_. All of his rage and horror and  _madness_  – his sheer, sudden  _desperation_  – all smashed together, a sudden raging storm that tripped the switch deep in his subconscious labelled  _magic_.

Cronus whipped around with confusion in his wide eyes as the portal back to Olympus snapped shut, and the chevrons in the Chappa'ai were suddenly dialing again. "What –" he began, but cut himself off as he caught a glimpse of Zeus; the terrifying amalgamation of  _force_  that welled up and out of him, colouring the very air around him  _blue._

Cronus yelled, aiming his Ribbon Device – but was unable to even power it before a blast of  _something_  slammed into him so hard that it whipped him off his feet and sent him hurling through the air and through the portal that opened up and swallowed him, flinging him to worlds unknown.

Unfortunately, Zeus knew not how to control this sudden influx of power; it screamed and screeched and lit the world ablaze – the ground rumbled and shook and  _opened up and swallowed the Chappa'ai_ – snow and blizzards and hurricanes exploded around him and suddenly, he was off his feet and flying  _backwards –_

The weight of the water he found himself dropping into kept him falling down and down and down as the magic still worked and thrust him ever deeper - and then before he knew it, everything was too far away from the surface – dark and black engulphing – the cold locked his limbs in place and suddenly, the shock of the impact registered and hit him full force – he opened his mouth and  _screamed – every breath a lungful of water- everything burned and froze and numbed him dead -_

All he could do was keep on drowning.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Fifth**

**Chapter Four**

Wake up. Breathe in. Burning. Cool. Colder. Numbing. Eyes close. Everything black.

Wake up. Breathe in. Burn. Cold. Numb. Eyes listless. Blackness.

Wake up. Breathe. Burn. Cold. Numb. Black.

Wake up. Numb. Black.

Numb. Black.

Nothing.

Mind screaming. No breath to sound it out. Focus – deepdarkwaterheavydrowningdrowingdrowning – FOCUS. Science, technology – years and years of life years and years of drowning water surrounding blackness-

Focus. Face; eyes kind, smile warm. Beautiful. She – Alcmene –

Alc-

Ah…

Gold eyes peer through memories. Pierce through soul. Scalding anger. Hate, obliviating.

Gold eyes rake their claws in deep. Hate. Anger. Weight of years upon years of madness.

Focus.

Har – Zeu – Hera –

_Focus._

Wake up. Blackness, surrounding. Don't feel anything. Don't see anything. Lungs don't try to breathe any more. Then, everything feels that little bit warmer. Eyes close. Numb. Black.

Can't – can't – have to focus, can't lose… Can't – Water weighing mind spinning memories slipping cold away –

Wake up.

s

Everything slips away.

* * *

 

**3862 BC**

Something sharp pokes his side repeatedly; a sudden push, and he's on his side – and water spills up his throat and he coughs it out and he has to remember to breathe. A mantra in his head pounds; focus, one two: in, out. In, out. In, out.

Squinting in the dark, he looks to his side and sees a moist rock that he's been swept into by the current. He stares, and then looks up – to a sky with stars in it and he looks down and sees water and realises that something isn't quite right.

Then he realises that he forgot to think about breathing, and the world turns black again.

* * *

 

He doesn't know how long it takes him to concentrate on breathing enough that he no longer stops if his mind wanders. He doesn't know where he is, except that there's hot sand beneath his feet that rubs his skin raw the wrong way. His feet feel too small and his legs too short and his voice not quite deep enough. He knows he woke up in a river and he's been following it for two days now, and only stops when a young girl scampers over the horizon and heads straight for him.

"Who are you?" She asks, sun-burnt hair long about her face; and the world feels like it's tilting on its side, because she's taller than him and for some reason that doesn't feel right.

"I don't know," He says, and startles himself with his honesty. His words echo the twang of hers, and it tastes different yet familiar against his tongue.

"Every person has a name," she says smugly, and waits for his answer.  _Impetuous youth,_  he thinks, then considers the question and finds he can't quite get his thoughts around it.

"I think I may be many people." Images flash through his mind - hints of different names and sounds and cultures of people. It makes his head hurt.

A grin lightens her face. "That sounds like – like a... mystery! We don't find many puzzles out here. A riddle; what one name is many people? Do you have to solve it to find your name?"

"I… No. It's…" More things flash through his mind; impossible things. Things that can only be supernatural explanations for natural phenomena (and he doesn't know how he knows this, either). Gods and things which quake like demons flash in his mind; things that sound like they could only exist in a legend, or in a "Myth," He says, and wonders why the hint of deities and otherworldly beings tickles the edge of his senses.

"A myth? Well, if that pleases you." The girl takes his wrist and draws him away from the water, and in the distance he begins to see shapes of other people. The precocious little girl smiles at him, as if he is a new toy or pet for her to discover. "Then I shall name you Methos."

* * *

 

The girl's name is Shani, and Methos knows she saved his life from being lost in the desert. Her curiosity may have led her to him, but her strong sense of responsibility made her drag and introduce him to her parents, speaking of gifts from gods and waxing reason after reason for him to stay, all of which Methos knows she made up on the spot. Shani had a theatrical spark, which she used fondly with loud expressions and stern manner to keep her siblings in line.

She was the oldest of four siblings – now five, with him – and quite happily bossed him about. Methos let her, because without her he'd be lost. Shani had smiled when she helped teach him how to speak right and showed him how their family survived, and comforted him when he cried for his loss. Because that was all Methos had; a loss of something deep and searing within his soul, and Shani felt responsible to fill it.

Methos also had two brothers and another sister. Shani had judged them all together once, not long after she'd first brought him to them, and nodded to herself with collected confidence.

"Yes, that's right!" She said, grinning at him. "You're smaller than Shu but taller than Yafeu – and since me and Shu are taller than you  _and_ older, that makes you the second oldest boy." She frowned at him and Yafeu, tilting her head to her side. "Yafeu's four years old and Shu's six. I think that makes you five!"

Methos scowled at her. "How old are you, then?"

" _I'm_ seven. Which means I'm the  _oldest_ , so I'm in charge – mum said so!"

Methos felt like arguing back – because really, he felt  _much_  older than five, but it wasn't something he could really explain. He couldn't remember anything from before Shani found him at the riverbed. But, he reasoned to himself as he looked up at Shani, he  _was_ smaller than his brother Shu, and since so was Yafeu and Masika and they were both younger than him… He guessed that meant he must be too.

He was glad that Shani had decided to go exploring that day; without her, he doubted he would have found the oasis that the family lived in. He probably would have died, wandering alone in the endless desert.

Methos had nightmares, most nights; dreams that seemed to encompass years and years but when he woke up slipped away in seconds. He dreamed of men with painted bodies and dark skin; of huts, and birds and a strange, enthralling freedom within the colour blue. Ghosts of waters weighing down on him, endlessly suffocating, whispers to his subconscious; yellow, horrored eyes and the name  _Harry_  teasing the edges of his memory.

Methos would wake up in a cold sweat, the weight of amnesia frightening, and would mark each year he spent here in the desert on a slab of thin but sturdy, flat rock. He never again wanted to forget how old he was. He didn't want to forget who he was, either – but in the dead of night, half-way between sleep and consciousness, a deep searing, burning  _anger_  caught in his throat and it scared him; what kind of person was capable of that level of darkness?

Methos wasn't sure if he wanted to remember.

* * *

 

**3832 BC**

When he was approximately thirty-five years old, the oasis at which his family lived ran dry. He was horrified for all of them that what they needed to survive was gone, but in the back of his mind he felt strangely glad; water, in any deep form, terrified him. He had been a part of this family for thirty years, but still the only memories he had of  _before_ still lingered – fragments of wet darkness and the pressure of the ocean, suffocating, entrapping, binding him to the current; and then long, blurred hours of the cold as each wave wrapped over him, caressing his flesh with freezing fingers that scratched at every corner of his body, and he would be carried on the surface of the sea and he would stare up at the stars, unable to feel anything at all – and he would wish for the darkness to take him over once more so he didn't have to face it all over and over again.

A shudder would run up his spine at the very thought of it; being near water, he would gag as the memory of it feeling hard like ice forcing its way through raw lips and slipping like a knife down his throat; so cold that it burned his stomach before it froze his lungs.

Slowly, Methos let the heat of the desert sun pierce through the film of memory and anchor him to reality; carefully, he wrapped up his family's small provisions in the thick cloth that they used to shelter them from the arid sands, and with a thick rope secured it to his back.

Securely winding his cowl around his head, he followed Shani as she set off, leading the family. Where before there were seven, now there were six: their father Madu had passed away two years before. He had shown them all what he knew before his passing, and Shani took her role as the next responsible eldest with stubborn determination. She knew the way to the next oasis, and would lead them all. Their mother, Mandisa, had yet to recover from her husband's death: a shell of her former self, she spoke little and ate less; thin and fragile she followed along silently, head bowed and form bent in resigned defeat.

Methos frowned at the sand as he walked, holding a heavy cloth wound around him tightly. Looking at his family, a pang hit his heart; they're all grown up now, but he still felt like a lost little child.

He prepared dinner for all of them that night under the cooling desert, and dug them a place to sleep in the still warm sand and propped up their tent. While everyone else went to sleep though, he stayed outside; looking up at the skies and thinking that the stars didn't seem like they were in the right place – like they'd drifted somehow, since before he could remember. When he went to sleep, it wasn't an easy one; whispers of a coming tragedy teased at the edge of his mind.

* * *

 

It came at them two days later, without warning; the wind swept up and suddenly the sand was whipping around them, burning them with every edge. Methos is scared – they're trapped beneath a dune with a sandstorm raging towards them. A hand grips his, and he looks up into Shani's face, looking as terrified as he felt but with a weary resignation. His fingers tighten, and he stares at her as long as he can – then everything turns red and hot and suddenly, he can't breathe anymore. He screams and cries, but he's drowned out by the sand.

* * *

 

**3825 BC**

Methos woke to the sound of a blade sharpening. Eyes still closed, he focused on the sound of the metal slipping against wet rock. He felt warm, nestled in blankets; his limbs felt weak, the taste of sand bitter on his tongue. The last thing he could remember of the storm was a hazing pain, before blackness overwhelming and then – nothing. Methos frowned as he tried to remember –  _he'd promised himself he would never, ever forget again_ – but all he could see in his memory was glimpses of heat under the pressure of heavy, crushing sand that rubbed him raw and choked him inside and out.

Methos stilled as the realisation hit him. His family – they'd been trapped in that sandstorm! There was no way anyone could have survived that. Did that mean…? Had he died? Was he  _dead_?

There was a sharp sound then, that startled him out of his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see a man staring down at him, placing down a rock and a knife onto the floor. The man's skin was darker than his own, and thick black hair fell about his head. He was dressed all in white, except for the patterned red cloth that was tied around his head – protection against the desert sun, Methos knew. The man continued to stare at him, bearded face hard but curious.

"I wonder," the man started in a voice like grinding gravel (and Methos wondered how he could understand him, because those sounds that shaped the man's words were  _not_ the kind he had grown up with), "What kind of man still lives after we dig him out of the sands?"

Methos remained silent, not knowing how to continue. The other man leant forward, elbows resting in the crook of his knees. His gaze was piercing.

"You," the man continued, "are a stranger. But you must understand my predicament," he said as his hand drifted back towards his knife, "that strangers here are not welcome. Especially not strangers that can survive being buried in the sands. What kind of stranger are you?" He paused, but not long enough to wait for an answer, "What are your intentions to my people?"

"Your people?"

"You are staying with the tribe of Banu Ghatafan."

"Could I speak to your elder? I mean no harm – I am willing to prove it."

The man let out a short, bark-like laugh. "No, I will not let you  _near_ our Sheikh; not until I understand who you are."

Methos opened his mouth to protest, but was cut of by a shake of the other man's head. "Me against my brother," he said, and it felt to Methos as if it were the beginning of a chant. "My brothers and me against my cousins," the man continued, "then my cousins and me against strangers.

"You are a stranger. What is your purpose, here?"

"I am no stranger. My name is Methos."

"We are Bedouin. What are you?"

"I am – was, from a small family that lived in an oasis. The oasis ran dry, and we moved on – but were trapped by a sandstorm. I fear they are – dead; like I should be, still trapped in the sands."

Methos dropped his gaze and clenched his eyes as the truth of the words hit home. Again, he was alone.

The man studied him for a moment, before nodding. "I will take you to the Sheikh. He will decide what to do with you."

* * *

 

**3760 BC**

He had to leave the Bedouin tribe when it became evident that he wasn't aging. It had scared him at first, when he realised it had been twenty years and still he lacked the wrinkles and whiter hair that grew on others his age; looking into the reflection on his blade one day, and actually  _seeing_ that he hadn't aged rather than just knowing he hadn't ever since he'd been trapped in the sandstorm had frightened him – because it was  _unnatural_  and however long he'd been staying with this tribe, he was still a stranger, of different descent. From then on he kept his face covered and tried to match his movements to those of elder years, but then he and the tribe had realised that sixty years had passed and he should have been dead by now.

So Methos left the Bedouin tribe that had helped him get back onto his feet after his grief; he would explore the lands, and try his best not to be found out as an ageless being. He feared that only the will of an evil spirit was keeping him alive – why else would someone as odd and undeserving as he still live? No; if anyone had deserved to live, it was Shani.

* * *

 

Methos travelled wherever he could; along the long plains and by the dead sea, he passed camps and tribes and learnt a little of what he could along the way; different ways to hunt, sew, cook, and survive. He climbed the landscape to Petra, in all it's sheer stone glory with Nabataeans nestled in the bowels of caves, where he lived for many years learning to carve into the stone walls that protected the camp's location – and where, following instinct, he found himself chipping away into the stone's surface odd markings that took a little out of him every time he made one, but seemed to resonate in power; markings of protection, of fertility and growth.

He couldn't stay with groups of people all the time though, and as he wandered he had to live within the wilderness and surrounded by fauna; he would hunt large beasts that would hunt him in turn, predator-sleek and spotted black on golden fur. He'd taken camels from Bedouins and ridden them across the mountains, sleeping with them for heat when the sun went down and the icy chill would spread. There were other animals in the desert too; ones smaller than the gold-and-black beasts with longer snouts and large, pointed black ears with vicious sharp teeth; others with small but stone-hard feet that clattered against the mountainsides with stumpy tails and long, curved, sturdy horns. There were small lizards with blue heads and necks and large lizards with fat tails and toothless jaws. Little golden mice scurried under the stones, so quick and agile that he never could quite catch one.

He was once killed by a black snake that struck at him when he accidentally stepped on it, hood flared and maw wide and reaching before he could react, burning venom spreading through his arm and shooting straight to his heart. He'd woken up with a sharp gasp and the feeling of his lungs almost exploding with the desperate need for oxygen, realization stinging at the fact that not only would he never age but that he was also so wrong for this world that not even death would take him. After he'd calmed down, he'd heard furious spitting to his right.

" _What! But I bit you! I wasss going to eat you!_ "

"What?" He startled, looking around for the person who spoke (who had apparently killed him?), only to find the black snake that had lunged at him before he blacked out coiled anxiously near him, head bowed and hood flared.

He stared at the snake, and it stared straight back at him. Could it…? No, no way.

The snake moved, ready to spring again.  _"Maybe I ssshould bite the ssthing again,"_

" _No! Don't do ssthat!"_ Methos quickly replied, startling himself at the underlining hiss to his words. It took him a few moments to process the fact that the snake had just spoken. As in, he could  _understand_  it.

The snake looked quite stunned.  _"You ssspoke!"_

Methos had to disagree.  _"No,_ you _ssspoke – you jussst did it again!"_

" _What?"_

" _What?"_

" _Ssthere you go again, human! You're ssspeaking!"_

" _Of courssse I'm ssspeaking – but you ssshouldn't be able to,"_

" _Don't be sssilly, human. I've alwaysss been able to ssspeak. But I've never before heard of a human being able to ssspeak the ssserpant tongue."_

" _I'm not ssspeaking ssserpant tongue – it isss ssthe language of Sssinai."_

" _Lisssten to yourssself, human. You are not ssspeaking any human tongue."_

Methos was startled at the possibility, and focused his mind on what he'd just said – and realised that his mouth hadn't been forming the words he'd thought he'd been saying.

He was stunned. Had he  _actually_ just been speaking another language – the language of snakes – without even realising it?

The snake hissed a chuckle,  _"It wasss an honour to meet a human that could ssspeak the ssserpent tongue and resssissst our poissson. I will have to tell my nesssst matesss about you, ssspeaker."_

The snake hissed a farewell as it slithered off, and Methos hissed one back, sitting there and massaging his arm in shocked confusion. Life – or whatever it was he was going through – just got a whole lot more interesting.

* * *

 

The first time he realised that his strange language acquisition was not focused solely to snakes was when he travelled for three months with two camels. One morning he woke up to a rumbling groan near his left ear that startled him awake and he froze, keeping silent and still. Was he being ambushed?

" _Bored,"_ came a rather low, languid voice.

" _Me too,"_ came a rather solemn reply.

Nothing else was said for almost five minutes; the whole time, Methos didn't move and kept still. He did  _not_ want to alert them that he was awake. They might try and kill him, and he wasn't quite willing to risk death by man any time soon. Something about other people with blades put him on edge.

" _Hungry,"_ came the rather low, languid voice again.

" _Me too,_ " came the rather solemn reply again.

Methos opened his eyes, knowing that they were behind him, and wondered what the hell was going on.

Ten minutes later the solemn sounding one started speaking.  _"Good, you here now. You and me talk. All other suns with man no one talk. You and me no bored we talk."_

Methos wondered if maybe something was wrong with either him or whoever was next to him, but he decided it was time to act. Quickly, he sprung to his feet, sword drawn – only to find that the only ones next to him were his two camels. They looked at him, blinking slowly. One of them yawned. Seeing no one about, he stared oddly at the two animals, before shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. He took a sip of water and tried to go back to sleep. Maybe he'd spent too much time in the sun.

* * *

 

The next morning, Methos woke up early, still slightly jittery from the odd dream he'd had the night before. He shook his head, trying to wipe away any traces of any downright bizarre thoughts. He looked at the camels and sighed. They looked too dumb to speak, anyway.

"C'mon," he said, as he tugged at the reigns of the closest one, shifting the pack closer. "Let's get an early start."

The camel raised its head, lips pulled back as it bared its teeth, rows of slabs like whitened stone.

"What?" Methos asked, annoyed with the camel that didn't want to cooperate. He hadn't actually expected an answer.

" _Tired. Walk lot when sun rose last. Sleep now_." It came out low and lumbering, a softer voice than he would have imagined.

Methos gaped as it huffed at him, then lowered its head and settled back to sleep. Well, damn. Either he hadn't imagined what he'd heard the other day, or there was seriously something funky in the water.

* * *

 

Methos discovered that, if he consistently heard a language for several months – be it human or otherwise – he would somehow learn it; and something about him allowed his voice to act in ways inhuman, causing him able to make the same noises as animals, producing sounds that he'd never thought possible for a human (did that mean he wasn't human?). He couldn't remember ever spending any lengthy period around snakes though, and thought it must have happened before those years of memories he'd lost to the sea.

Methos decided he never wanted to ride another camel again. They didn't talk often, but dear lord they were the dullest creatures he had ever encountered. At least snakes could hold a conversation.

* * *

 

**3000 BC**

Methos settled down in the Sinai region where he met and married a nomad girl with long, black hair and a strong, beautiful face. He'd been with other women before, some of which he'd knowingly – and sometimes unknowingly – also married; he'd loved each one of them in their own way, but this women was different; the kind you'd only find one of in a century – in  _ten_ centuries even; this woman was like magic, and his love for her sang in his veins. Her smile eased his troubles and her laugh made them disappear. Whenever he was near her his legs felt a little weak and his heart beat that much faster, and he felt impossibly young and human around her.

He was with her for ten years, never able to giver her a child; it pained him and he could see how much it saddened her; but never once had she even thought of leaving him for another, more capable and worthy man, despite how much he protested. She was a wonderful woman that deserved all that life could give her; she would have been a wonderful mother and should have had a family of her own, and Methos felt guilt for not being able to make that happen.

She only smiled at him and took his head in her hands, kissing him gently whenever he tried to persuade her that she should leave him for someone else (because there was no way he could ever leave her); and she would tell him, in that sweet way of hers, that  _he_ was worth all that life could give him and that no other man would ever be as good.

He shared with her his secrets; his seeming immortality, how he didn't know his origins; his time with the Bedouin tribe and all the tribes after, and even his ability to talk to animals. She delighted in his talents, warming him from the inside out as she reassured him that nothing he was capable of doing made him seem any less human in her eyes. She said he was a gift from the gods, and over time he almost found himself agreeing with her – for, he felt, only a god could have created a woman so understanding and lovely as her.

* * *

 

Methos would, later in life, come to realise how everything fell in patterns and waves of cycles. He would see the end of all things and the end of things as he knew them. His world would end more than once, and each time he'd pick himself back up and start anew because it was all he could do.

For the person known as Methos who had already experienced the tragedy of a family torn suddenly away from him, he woke up one day to the world ending with the sound of people screaming.

Their homes were burning and the people were burning and people all around him were screaming and dying. He rushed out, sword in hand, to find their tribe swarming with Egyptian soldiers. He fought as fast and as hard as he could – but there were just too many. "Why!" He shouted, voice hoarse, at the soldier that gutted him.

"For the Pharaoh," The man snarled. "He smites all you nomads, you demons!" The man twisted his sword and yanked it out and the floor gave out from under him. Methos tried to breathe but something hot and wet caught in his throat and his stomach felt like it was burning.

Somehow, he managed to curl onto his side and twist his head to look around – and saw with growing horror that  _no_ , he had fought for nothing – because the women and children  _hadn't_  gotten away and there was his lovely woman with long black hair lying on the ground and looking back at him with tears in her eyes as she tried to smile at him and tell him it would be okay.

Then, her body jerked horribly and her mouth open and red spilled out and she looked like she was trying to breath in everything but the air. Methos felt numb and light headed as everything blacked at the edges.

All light in her eyes withered as his whole world died with her.

* * *

 

Breath burned down his throat and he struggled to open his lips, turning his head to the side with a raspy groan. His hand, feeling almost numb and useless, scrabbled against the earth; fingers dug into the soil and gripped. His heart beat a pain into his chest and light began to colour his eyelids.

The hand against his stomach flexed, slipping against his slick skin and feeling smooth flesh. He cracked open his eyes and looked down at himself and saw the congealing pool of red. He raised his fingers to his lips and dusted off flakes of blood.

His blurred vision snapped into clarity.

A marbled face looked back at him; white and blue and slack in death, stained crimson and broken.

Methos looked away. That corpse was no-longer his wife.

Methos felt numb to the hollow of his core. He dragged himself to height and staggered to his feet, swaying in the midmorning sun.

His head tipped back as he stared out into the blue of the sky. He let hate fill his soul.

The sun beamed down on him. Rage tore through his throat.

His cry of grief echoed through the lifeless sands.

* * *

 

He wandered the desert for months, allowing the bitter winds to drag him in their wake. Not once did he eat or drink; he let himself waste away against the heat. Still he walked on, gaunt and sickly thin but still full of strength, still able to go on.

And then one day he came upon a tree, a dark shadow in the distance. As he came closer, it began to rise above the sands in an arch that seemed to stretch forever. He reached the base and carefully rested the skin of his palms against the rough grooves of the bark; felt the patter of life seep into his pores. He looked up into the branches and caught the speckled light through the leaves. A beam of light, filtered through the growth, hazed through his sight, warm and misty and smooth like silk. He looked up and thought the tree was at least sixty feet tall.

From the folds of his shirt he withdrew a short dagger and cut into the bark. He gave it one sharp push, then cupped the gash with his hands and felt like he had spoken. A brief dazzling heat bloomed beneath his fingers, and then a trickle of liquid spilled out from the tree; Methos leant forward and lapped at the milky sap and thought it was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

A branch dipped above him, and he looked up into the deep purpled green of the fig. It twisted neatly off the tree with a grasp of his fingers. The fruit blushed with health and split open in his palms with a slice of his nail. The heart of it gleamed at him in bruised cream. He looked into the reflective moisture and glimpsed the blue face of Death.

Then suddenly, there was a shout behind him that rocked him from his daze, and he turned to see a farmer and something wooden aimed at his head.

He lost consciousness beneath the sycamore and dreamt of having sat upon the tree.

* * *

 

Methos had been caught stealing figs, and it was decided by the man who'd knocked him down to bring him before the Pharaoh for judgement. Methos rode in a wooden jail that creaked forward on wide wheels, sat with other thieves and beggars. They were a sorry lot; thin and grubby with clothes that peeled like second skins. The men that herded them across the plains were pleased in their cruelty of caging them like animals; they would be rewarded for catching criminals.

Methos felt the numbness that had pervaded his most recent waking days sharply ebb away throughout the journey; felt a tang of life, kindled by the taste of fig that brought vengeance as the edge of his mind's blade; it poised, swaying between his anger in general at those soldiers who killed his wife and the one responsible for it all happening.

He grit his teeth at the thought.  _Pharaoh_. He'd heard of those; men who played at the hems of the divine and rose above the throng of civility and ruled the ranks of people.

Methos turned his head against the rough cage and pressed his skin against the gap. "Who is the Pharaoh?" He asked.

One of the men that held the chains spat at him. "Nomad scum," he twisted from a twisted, bitter face. "You'll see Pharaoh Djer soon enough."

Methos turned his head back and let his dark thoughts lap at him, and turned the imagined likeness of the Pharaoh inside and out inside his head.  _Djer_ , his darkness promised. He wouldn't soon forget.

* * *

 

As they finally reached their endpoint, he saw great stone temple walls in the distance that seemed to soak in the sun as they loomed with sheer presence. They passed mud brick houses cobbled together, becoming more sturdy and elaborate as they reached through the streets towards the more privileged. Light music of airy tones and plucked harmonies drifted through the streets and the people as they moved about, snatches of jewels catching the light in every direction.

And then it felt like all of a sudden, he was dragged along by armed, muscled men, hands gripping him tight and pressing down the flex of his back until his knees buckled under him and cracked heavily against the floor.

As he forcefully knelt, something new crept along the edges of his senses; a growing static of  _something_ creeping into his awareness. It made his head throb as it approached like the tide, steady but full of erratic potential. It jolted against his thoughts and made a twinge flash down his spine like lightning.

He tried to crane his neck towards the disturbance, but fingers twisted into his hair and dragged his head back down, pushing his hunched body into a semblance of a bow. The facsimile of subservience grated at his manner and increased the discomfort he felt at the presence; it felt like scarabs were scratching just underneath his skin.

"look at me," a deep, commanding voice said, and the fingers in his hair grasped and pulled his head back, until he finally met the eyes of the man he'd wanted to see.

The biting weight of the other man's – presence? Spirit? Aura? Power? – subsided with the connection. Methos took in the image of the pharaoh; splendour dripping across each limb, connecting jewelled cloth that fell around his waist in waves. Cloth of black and striped gold framed his face, which gleamed clean and strong and smooth. His eyes were as black as that which framed them, stretched out slanting and regal. A definite sneer set his features, as well as a look of something different, something  _other_.

_Djer_. Methos bristles, burning anger straining at the edges; he wants to lash out, to lance and stab at the scab of a man before him until nothing remained but cold satisfaction.

The Pharaoh studied him, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. "Guards," he intoned, "I will speak to this one later. Take him away and keep him there until make use of him."

The guards bowed, and the drag against his hair and body twisted and heaved him up, marching him away; eventually he arrived in a small pit-like room, in which he was thrown in and left with a guard to watch him.

Methos was curious. Normally criminals were immediately sentenced; slavery, if able-bodied; execution if not. Without connections, exceptions were rarely given.

Later, word came back to him and he was taken from the room and back to the Pharaoh, who sat upon a throne and regarded him with calculating eyes. He made a gesture, and the guards left them alone in the room.

"What is your name?" Djer asked. It was not a question; it was a demand.

Methos bit down a snarl; for now, he would play nice. He might be able to turn whatever situation this was into his advantage. "Methos," he answered.

"I am the Pharaoh Djer, and long have I lived without meeting many like me. Our kind are a rarity."

Methos wanted to question what on earth the other man was on about, but kept quiet; one did not question or call out the Pharaoh if they wanted to be regarded with civility.

"I am an immortal being, Methos; and that feeling, that connection we held upon our distance ensures me that you are an immortal also."

"What?" Methos couldn't help but ask.

Djer seemed amused. "Ah, you are young, yet; I see your lack of comprehension in your eyes. Tell me; have you ever died, Methos? Passed beyond this realm, yet still found your way back?"

Methos didn't say anything, but apparently that was enough for Djer.

"That feeling in the back of your head when you were around me – it is the ultimate locator for another immortal."

"How can you be so sure?" Methos said.

Djer smirked. He rose, and stood before him, a hairs breadth away. "I can see it in your eyes," he said.

Then, there was a quick jolt – a flash of movement – and Methos felt the breath jump out of him. He looked down, and saw the handle of Djer's knife protruding from his body. He tried to speak, but the words died breathless on his lips. He fell before the pharaoh as the light dimmed and he felt himself die.

_Not again,_ he groaned.

* * *

 

Methos woke with a strained, painful gasp. "What the  _fu-_ "

"Now, was that so hard?" Djer spoke to him, an obscene, stretched smile slit across his face.

Methos sat up, rubbing his chest.

"There's your proof," Djer said, "Come, my brother. We have much to discuss."

Methos eyed the hidden guards, then took the proffered hand. He'd wait, and see what this madman wanted.

* * *

 

Methos bit back an incredulous snarl, and plastered a blank look of awe on his face. "... The son of the Falcon God," he said, repeating what Djer had told him.  _Blasphemy,_  he thought;  _your miserable facsimile of immortality could never be the scion of true divine power._

"That I am," Djer continued, lounging and drinking deep from wine as servants catered to his whim. "I have ruled Egypt since time began. And I will rule until time ends. As Pharoah, I was chosen by the Gods; my immortality is a gift of their blessing." He reagarded the other man over the rim of his glass. "... and yet, you have been blessed with it aswell." He hummed, swilling the liquid. "You will be my protégé,

* * *

 

((and here is where I stopped writing this chapter. And now comes the convoluted, fuck-long "notes" that includes several fleshed out scenes and an epilogue. Also, please keep in mind that all the notes and scenes are all first drafts! I apologise! It was quite a while ago that they were written.))

Djer believes himself to be the son of the Falcon god and states that he has ruled Egypt since time began. Instead of punishing Methos, he makes him his protegé and plans for Methos to be his successor. Methos has other plans to avenge his wife's death. One night, when Djer is sleeping, Methos shoots him with a poison dart, and before he revives, binds him in burial wrappings and places him in a sarcophagus, thereby dooming him to spend eternity as a mummy. The next morning, he becomes the new Pharaoh of Egypt.

\------

He hears the voice of Anubis behind him, who implies that he know all that he has done. (If I weigh your heart – I wonder… There is so much darkness in you, my Pharaoh; so much  _death_. I like you, my Pharaoh; but you should not forget your place.

You should not forget  _yours!_

Methos reached for his sword for the second time that night, but was stopped by the sudden buzzing in his head of an immortal. Anubis laughed beneath his mask.

Run, my Pharaoh. Run away, and don't come back until you see sense!

Methos looked into the eyes of the Jackal's head, and as the other man's head tilted to the left, the buzzing of another immortal stopped. Methos gasped, as he realised  _who_  had been giving that feeling. "What – what are you?"

More than you could imagine as you are now. I might even tell you, one day; but not now. You are  _weak_ and not yourself. Go.

Methos snarled, but inside something crept up his spine.  _Fear_. He looks at Anubis as the other steps forward into a beam of light – and realises with a sharp horror that it isn't a  _mask_ of a Jackal on his head. Dark fur creeps up the other's neck and his maw is stretched back revealing two rows of sharp teeth clenching in a parody of a grin. Dark animal eyes pierce into his soul as the Jackal's ear twitches. Anubis' whole body leans back and shudders with a laugh and Methos wonders what kind monster or demon or spiritual godly being this thing is, both immortal and not, at the same time?

He leaves and doesn't look back.

\------

**2400 BCE**  (He kills Joseph in a violent disagreement by chopping his head off, and doesn't know how the lightening appeared, and when he wakes he finds himself in the care of Menahem; asking Menahem about the lightening, Menahem replies that he's only witnessed it himself once before when an immortal friend of his became beheaded in an accident; Menahem calls it a 'quickening', and gave Methos his theory that by taking it from another immortal you gain their power and skills, as well as some memories.

"Are you going to take my head?"

"Why should I? There's no rule that says I should. You need to be careful, though; I've been around a long time, and there are rumours that there's an immortal out there who's discovered this too, and finds the whole debacle amusing; he's making a  _game_  out of beheading his own people, of all things! It's disgusting, and the man is a lunatic. I'd best teach you how to wield a sword, in case you come across him or any he has influenced; he's like a disease, and this idea of playing a game of immortal versus immortal looks to be spreading."

"I don't understand. Why would he  _want_  the memories of another immortal? And what would the power do? Make him heal  _faster_? We already can't stay dead! What's the point?"

"Do you remember what happened when you took the quickening?"

"I – no, I don't."

"I remember what happened when I took mine. It's euphoric, Methos; it feels like nothing else. After I took it, I felt like I could fly; like nothing could ever stop me. Like I was a  _god_."

(Methos shivered. No, he didn't like the sound of  _that_. )

He finds he can already wield a sword, although does not understand how his body can remember whilst his mind cannot. He tells Menahem of how he was found washed ashore, and the other immortal theorises how that must have been his first death, but the way in which he died – and might have stayed dead for so long under the waters – could have damaged his memory. For a long time, Methos believes that he cannot remember anything from before his 'first' death. It is only after he kills Logan/Remus that he realizes how true it is, in that it is with his first death that he began to forget who he truly was.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**2400 BCE-2100 BCE-** Methos first meets  **Kronos**  and his friend  **Silas** , who share his distaste for mortals.  **Caspian**  later joins their band. Silas proposes an idea to use their power and immortality to wreak havoc among mortals. They become known as the Four Horsemen and raid the countryside for several hundred years. On one raid Kronos takes the head of an  **Immortal**  living in a small village. After that, Silas and Caspian long to experience it for themselves. Fearing their betrayal, Methos leaves, avoiding contact with immortals for the next few years.

Meets Kronos, rage snapped because of similarity in name to one which he inexplicably hates, although the similarity also draws his curiosity. He finds it easy to follow orders from a man named such, although he does not no why (he spent many years trained to do so).

Becomes horseman. Insert terrible years of violence. Finds himself enraptured by it, revelling in it, losing himself to a terrible instinct that tells him that he his superior. That he is a God. He sees a woman that looks like she who found him ashore, and he suddenly notices his consuming rage, and realizes how similar and terrible it is. It frightens him, to realize that he cannot control it.

(Sees Kronos behead an immortal and take his quickening…)

"No! Kronos – why did you do that!"

"Can you not feel it, Methos? The power of it – running through my veins, it's fantastic! It's  _fun_!"

"It's not fun – it's killing our own kind!"

"It's a game, Methos, didn't you know? We're all playing it! Ha ha. "

(the words that echo Menahem's chills him)

"No – Kronos, I don't know what you've heard, but it's  _not_ a game."

"Don't be so naïve, Methos! It's a game because I  _made_  it that way. I was the first, you know, to realise its potential – each time I take an immortal's life, I feel so much stronger. I wonder what would happen if one person took the power from all the other immortals?"

"You – you can't –"

"Oh, don't worry, Methos. We're brothers. I wouldn't take your life – what's the fun in having the power to rule the world, if I'm dong it all alone? Besides, you're the tactician. I'll need your help."

In a pillage, stabs a child – and realizes, looking down on the young, shocked face, that he has never hurt a child before. The shout – No! Remus! REMUS! – and the other young boy that hysterically punches and screams at him – startles him awake and he thinks nonono – this isn't right - (Hercules, his mind whispers)

"you killed him! You – yuh you killed him! You demon! You monster!" – it is only as the swipes sting that he realizes the child is now using a dagger or sharp weapon of some kind, and so pushes the child to the ground, who scrabbles for his dead brother and cries protectively hunched over the body. Methos stares, and for the first time the cries grate at his soul. And then looks at the child, and sees sharp, bloodstained nails shaped more like claws. He looks back –

"my brothers, I should.. I should go back to them.." And turns to the children, and thinks that he must kill them. But as he prepares to do so, the dead child heaves a great gasp of air and wakes up, confused and no-longer wounded. Methos is shocked – was this another immortal? But no, he couldn't be. He didn't feel like one, nor had he felt a pre-immortal in the area. The other child is just as surprised, and they both look fearfully up at him. Methos stares, "it seems the Gods have blessed you children. It is a sign from the spirits." He does not know why he says such, but he believes it to be true. He kneels down to their level, - Death will not take you this day. – He realizes that if he does not to the deed, his brothers will. And he thinks that he does not like the idea of them killing him, of one of his brothers eating them. He feels like they must be safe, and so he rides with them on his horse and travels for days and days. They do not stop, but once they do, He lets them go – "wait, sir. I can't… I can't look after my brother alone". – Romulus looks shamed at this, but Death – Methos – smiles. – "Then I must follow the spirit's will as they intended. I will look after you. You shall be safe from Death."

The messenger spirits visit him that night, and heal his mind enough to remember and understand. He realizes how his quickening killed the Goa-uld, but in attacking his most weakest part – his vulnerable neck – it still managed to spread it's influence and damage him. They are his first children, and they are with him when he remembers his past. They are still young yet, and so her raises them as he would a member of his tribe

**CHAPTER SIX**

Worrying that he might forget everything again, he rights down everything he can remember and stars a diary.

He teaches the children how to fight as they stay on the move. Romulus, the eldest (12) realises that Methos has a certain purposefulness when he choose their direction; he confronts him, and Methos admits that they're going to Egypt – he has unfinished business there. (thinks of Inpu's transformation etc)

John Watson = Inpu, Ancient Egyption

("Do you believe in magic?"

Shocked by the statement, methos could do nothing but bark out a startled laugh.

"Magic! If only the world were so wonderful."

Inpu didn't laugh; his face, deadly serious (although a hint of a smirk played about his lips). "Have you ever done anything that you cannot explain? Acts which do not quite fit into the rules of the norm?"

"I… well." His face paled, pasted milky white as memories, sudden and brought upon by the direction of his thoughts bombarded him. "I am Shaman. Well – I was, a long time ago. I haven't been a Shaman in many years."

((Come now. Surely you didn't believe you were the  _only_ immortal with magic, did you?))

As Methos puts the boys to bed at night, (Would you tell us a story?). "There was once a god named Zeus…"

\------

realised along the journey that the two boy's mutation affected them mentally, too – without a routine of meditation of some sort, their animalistic instincts took control

Takes the boys with him to visit Greece. Hears the myth of Hercules and frantically tries to find out more – and cries when he sees how Hercules is depicted wearing his lightning bolt symbol.

\------

Rome's early history is shrouded in legend. According to Roman tradition, the city was founded by Romulus on 21 April  **753 BC**.

The legendary origin of the city tells that Romulus and Remus decided to build a city. After an argument, Romulus killed his brother Remus.

when Methos tells them of how he used to be known as the god Zeus and founded Greece, the brothers decide they want to build a city too.

When in a pub, a scribe buys them drinks, saying that he thinks they look interesting and that interesting-looking people usually have equally interesting tales to tell.

(Oh? And how exactly do we look  _interesting?_ " Snarled Romulus as Remus scowled.

Methos rolled his eyes. "Where are your manners, boys? Honestly, it's as if you were raised by wolves.))

Romulus wishes to build the new city on the Palatine Hill but Remus prefers the Aventine Hill. They agree to determine the site through augury. Romulus appears to receive the more favourable signs but each claims the results in his favour. In the disputes that follow, Remus is killed.

(Methos sighed. "You know he's never going to forgive you for this."

Romulus scowled. "I won – and he knows that! Besides, it's not like he was going to  _stay_ dead. And he would have killed  _me_ for the city, too!"

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Methos becomes curious as to what become of Romulus' city and so decides to go there and experience the culture as a native

Becomes Marcus Antonius (in Latin: M·ANTONIVS·M·F·M·N[1]) (c. January 14, 83 BC–August 1, 30 BC), known in English as Mark Antony, was a Roman politician and general. He was an important supporter and the loyal friend of Gaius Julius Caesar as a military commander and administrator, being Caesar's second cousin, once removed, by his mother Julia Antonia

Cleopatra, arranging his burial services, did so with a means for him to get out. He found a letter addressed to him, sealed with a kiss, saying that his death – however brief – showed her that she could not live a life without him, as she understood he would have to live a life with her, a long and lonely life. She did not want him to see her grow old, she did not want him to see her die. And so, in the letter, she bid him farewell; and hoped that it would be many centuries, at least, before she saw him again. She had shown him a different side to magic, and she told him to live and learn and experience what she, an unmagical mortal woman, never would. He respected her wishes, heartbroken, and was long gone when he heard news of her death. She had loved magic, and in respect to her he sought it out, spending the next thousand years travelling and learning.

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Skims over how he travelled the world and learnt different forms of magic in memory of Cleopatra, before travelling to England.

900 AD

(his last name is ravenclaw)

meets Rowena, she adores him. Falls in love, and is the first woman other than Cleopatra to seduce him first. He finds himself revelling in her similarity to the other woman – her passion, her intelligence, her wit. He helps her build Hogwarts, as she persuades him to teach wizards and witches runes like he taught her. Deep in work, though, he calls her Cleopatra, but does not even realize his mistake. She slaps him, feeling broken-hearted at how he only loved what she represented. He tries to argue that it was only the similarities which first attracted him, but that he loves her in her own right, but she wants nothing more to do with him after learning that his love was based on a lie. She forces him to leave, and she dies of broken heart as the man who meant everything to her does what she says. But of course he would always do as she asked, and again it reminds him of Cleopatra as she dies not long later, although this parting feels bitter and full of sorrow rather than the understanding love that he and Cleopatra shared. He later hears of the travesty that happened to her children, and feels guilt for the last time. (you guys who watch Highlander carefully will understand from the hint what comes for him next)

**CHAPTER NINE**

1330 AD

Becomes Nicolas Flamel (French pronunciation: [nikɔlɑ flaˈmɛl]) (early 1330-1418) who was a successful French scrivener and manuscript-seller who developed a posthumous reputation as an alchemist due to his reputed work on the philosopher's stone.

1349

Meets a little immortal girl and realizes that she can do magic. He adopts Perenelle, realizing that she is the first magic immortal that he has seen in all his life. He teaches her in the same way he taught Remus and Romulus, and she attends Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. She dies when she is twenty-two, and rushes home in shock, only to find that the man who raised her is immortal too. It is her idea to use alchemy to create the philosophers stone as an excuse to be able to keep the same persona for much longer, and as he stops himself aging, when introduced someone they believe that the pair are married, since they share the same surname. Perenelle decides it's a funny idea and milks it, much to Nicolas' embarrassment and displeasure.

1452

She says she wants to adopt, saddened as she is by her inability to have children of her own. He does not want any, uncomfortable at the idea of people believing that he shared a child with someone whom he thought of as a daughter. He is tired of outliving the people he loves, and she leaves when he admits that if he had not known she was immortal then he would not have saved her from the streets.

1453

He feels at a loss for what to do with his life now without her presence, and decides to do something to stop himself from dwelling on her and feeling guilty about yet another woman in his life. He majored in medicine at the University of Heidelberg in Heidelberg, Germany, in 1453.

**CHAPTER TEN**

1458

He goes back to his large house in the south of France, to find that she just came back with a boy in tow, and he finds out by finding a pre-immortal quickening in a guest bedroom of his rather large house. He follows her own quickening – having left it till later, since he was able to recognise it – and finds her determined to make him appreciate the love a family can bring.

Bringing up Jack, found by a kindly old man named Johnathan, a shepherd, who had a touch of the Sight to him, he realizes she is right, and that it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. (oh my god, such a lame pun. But I'm a huge fan of the punny, so would definitely sneak that line in there somehow.)

(She smiled at him, tears pricking the corners of both their eyes. "That sounded almost poetic, old man."

"Hmm, you're right," he grinned, winking at her, "I'll have to tell it to a proper poet, if I remember it.")

((If I had finished this story, I would have tried my best to make Methos the source of as many historical jokes as possible.))

\------

Becomes Benjamin Adams (December 16, 1764 – March 28, 1837) was an American lawyer and politician. Adams was born in Mendon, Massachusetts in 1764. Benjamin Adams grew up in Mendon, which was then a rural agricultural community. He was well educated by existing public schools in that community.

He was also known as "Ben Adams" when he moved to Arizona around 1860. Stays for twenty-six years.

Goes to England in 1886. In 1894, meets Inpu (John Watson) in the streets. They talk, and Methos sees Sherlock, realising he's a pre-immortal. Inpu knows this too and plans to be his teacher once Sherlock has his first death – jokes how with all the reckless things the man does, it's a miracle it hasn't happened already.

Inpu tells him of a child that he and Sherlock rescued the other day. Not a pre-immortal.

"What makes you think I should concern myself with her?"

"My pharaoh, it's no coincidence that our paths crossed today. You should remember, I'm still that being you first met – and I saw her soul… It is remarkably similar to yours."

"Similar? How so?"

"Hmm. Like a familial relation. With the amount of genetic variation and cross-breeding that all the mortals do, I normally wouldn't have bothered, but since it's you, I thought it was worth keeping an eye on. Do you want her?"

"I… Yes. How old is she?"

"She just turned four."

(Comes back to Perenelle's house in 1894 with young child in tow.)

Perenelle looked down at the young child asleep in his arms, then scowled up at him, arms folded and looking wholly unimpressed. "I thought you were just going to Arizona?"

"I was. I mean, I did – then I felt like travelling for a bit, and, well… Come on, she's adorable. And four years old. A witch. No parents, no family, no home –"

"Alright, alright!" Perenelle sighed, her gaze softening as she looked down at the little girl. "She's not immortal," she warned him, a touch of concern for him in her voice.

"I know," Methos murmured, turning his head to kiss the child on her forehead. "But this child… The first time I saw her, she seemed familiar, somehow; my blood, my magic, it recognises her. She needed my help, and I was able to give it."

1890 – the young girl (witch) is born, then adopted by Methos in 1894

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

1899 – Dumbledore, 18, seeks apprenticeship with Flamel. Learns alchemy and together discover 12 uses of dragons blood. (Dumbledore laughed at him for his white hair and beard – the 'old man' look Methos sports when 'Nicholas Flamel') (oh, come on! It's not a long beard. – It's still hair, on your face. You have a  _hairy face._ )

(Methos meets Grindelwald when he comes to visit Albus to see how he is doing and to meet the person his friend has been working with. Methos does not like Gellert, and doesn't like the way Albus hangs onto the boy's every word.)

1900 Perenelle finds Albus and Nicholas sniping and arguing at each other, having gotten stressed out over their research and constant closed-quarters. She tells them off and forces them to go out on holiday and catch a breather from eachother and their work.

On another "adventure" in Flagstaff, Arizona, Methos faces being hanged at dawn, but is rescued by the Sundance Kid. Later, he Butch Cassidy and Sundance attempt to break into a tough vault.

Albus persuades Flamel to send his daughter to Hogwarts in 1901, where she meets Anthony Potter. (Methos previously sent all his children to Beuxbatons, not wanting to be reminded of Rowena's death that he feels guilty for).

World war I - 1914 to 1918. All that shit with Grindlewald. But how much would Methos get involved, beyond what he already did in the original Highlander timeline?

He is elated by birth of grandchild to lift up his spirits after the war, since the Potter's met before the war, and her then boyfriend had to fight in it Since he had a squib brother that was joining the army and he couldn't leave his baby brother in a war alone. They married straight after the war. a man she admittedly felt attracted to at first because of his name, as the stories he told all his children as bedtime stories were tales of his past. After she marries him, Methos tells her of how the stories were true, and that he was in fact once known as Harry Potter. She names her child after him (BORN 1921), and none of them realize that Harold Potter is in fact Methos' biological grandfather.

World War Two – again, question of how Methos might interact with it beyond original Highlander timeline.

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

Between 1980 and 1996 he was known as "Adam Pierson."

Methos goes to James Potter's wedding as Nicholas Flamel, looking in his late fifties with a short beard. – it was well known that the Potter's were close family friends with the Flamels, although no-one but Dumbledore knew just  _how_ close. finds that there's something about Peter that he doesn't like.

1979 – starts to feel strange, doesn't like what he feels from the Wizarding World or the war with Voldemort. Starts setting up a new life for Adam Pierson (miles and miles away, Lilly Potter nee Evans grinned happily at the results before her. She was pregnant!)

1980 – Harry Potter is born

1981 – Wakes up during the night on Halloween with his scar bleeding, having witnessed the death of Lilly and James through the scar's link. The next day when he gets the Daily Prophet, is horrified to learn that it wasn't a dream like he'd tried to convince himself. When he hears about the kid's lightning bolt scar, he puts himself in deep meditation and remembers his first five years of life, finally knowing where he really came from, although he doesn't feel entitled to it.  _Harry_ is innocent and pure;  _Methos_  is the amalgamation of the depths of human depravity, and the hard path of redemption.

Goes to their funeral, and is furious when Dumbledore won't reveal the location of Harry Potter. (even though he knows he can't visit, because he doesn't dare test time travel laws, especially realizing what a monumental impact he's already had on history.)

Finds out about Sirius' incarceration without a trial – breaks into the Ministry and gets the information he needs. Sneaks into Azkaban with veritaserum and questions Sirius then and there – and, when finding out he's innocent, apparatus him out.

("We can't just  _leave_ Azkaban! It's  _Azkaban!_ "

"It's fine, I'll apparate us out."

"But – you can't, it's warded – "

" _Please_. I'm Nicholas Fucking Flamel. Like any wizard's ward is going to stop me.")

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**1984** -While a student in ancient languages at Oxford, Methos is recruited by Don Salzer to join the Watchers as a historian. He does so, and graduates sixth in a class of 103.

**1984-1985** -Methos works as a historian in the Watchers.

**1985-1987** -Settling in Paris, Methos works as a researcher in the Watchers under Don Salzer and the two begin to work on an interactive database.

**1987-1996** -Methos becomes the Watchers' top Methos scholar.

1991 – Harry Potter should have gone to Hogwarts. Perenelle calls him, tells him how she'd felt like updating her wizarding education so had gone as a muggle-born (as a girl named Hermione), and wants to keep an eye on what's surrounding their stone. Can't believe how idiotic Dumbledore seems to have grown from when they first knew him, announcing to a school full of children about a corridor of death!

She complains that he should have de-aged too and come to Hogwarts with her as Harry Potter because she's bored and lonely.

(" How did you -?"

"Please, Nick. I've seen that scar of yours hundreds of times – you never bothered to cover it up at home, did you? I've known since the first description of baby Harry Potter came out ten years ago in the Daily Prophet. Dumbledore's looking for you, you know. ")

Methos is furious when he finds out that Dumbledore destroyed his stone without asking, saying that it was for the greater good and that it had to be destroyed else Voldemort get his hands on it.

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

1992 – becomes curious about the Chamber of Secrets when Perenelle calls him and tells him about it. Goes to Hogwarts pretending to be Hermione's godfather and Nicholas Flamel's son, as he knows that Dumbledore would recognize him. ('Adam Flamel', incase he's spotted by anyone from Hogwarts when he's in his Adam Pierson persona). Says that he's worried for Hermione and doesn't trust her safety with Dumbledore since he's the man who got his dad's stone destroyed, and let a Dark Lord into the school on the back of a professors head.

(Oh, dad's fine. But he certainly doesn't want to see  _you_.)

("But – you're muggleborn!"

"Yes, I know. But my dad and Uncle Adam went to school in the south of France and grew up near each other – I always go there in the summer. Of course, dad didn't know that Uncle Adam was going to Beauxbaton's Acadamy for magic until Uncle Adam saw me do my first accidental magic when I was four.")

Explores the school, and managed to locate the Diary by the dark magic that resonates with his scar. Writes in it, and manages to find the Chamber of Secrets. Makes sure the Basilisk can't get back out into the school (really, what would be the point in killing such a magnificent creature?) rather likes the idea of having a pet basilisk. Keeps the book so he can analyse it, but doesn't write in it anymore

\------

In 1992 he may have had a brief meeting with  **Connor MacLeod** before the elder Highlander went into the Sanctuary.

They have a drink together in a pub? (Goddamn Highlander, you're such a boy scout. Thank the spirits there's only one of you. (Connor grins wryly, but doesn't comment. Methos feels a deep foreboding, and mourns that his life is never simple.))

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

1994 – Perenelle calls him and tells him how his name came out of the cup – and apparently, it's a magically binding contract, so if he doesn't compete he'll lose his magic! (Bullocks, thinks Methos; he's  _far_  older than that stupid cup. He'd certainly never given his permission to be tied to a magical contract, so there's no way it works) His curiosity is peaked though, so he goes to Hogwarts as a spectator for the tasks, having been invited to watch them by his goddaughter.

(You've been hanging out with Viktor Krum?

Of course! It's good for interrelations, you know.)

Is not exactly fond of Krum when he realizes after the second task that he's more than just a friend to Perenelle, as he views her as his daughter and good friend.

Promises Hermione to keep an eye on Krum in the third task, so when he sees Krum get portkeyed to an unknown location he gets his magic to latch onto the magical signature and apparatus to the graveyard. Stuns Pettigrew before he can do anything to Krum, who is lying unconscious.

(Krum gets to cup first – Cedric still at disadvantage from bad interaction with dragon – didn't know they were coming)

"IMPERIO!" Methos casts. (Very angry when he recognizes Peter) "Tell me what you were planning to do." (Pettigrew tells him about the Horcruxes) He takes his basilisk venom-coated sword and beheads the Voldemort creature with it.

Wakes Viktor up to check he's okay, then re-charms the Cup and sends him back.

Apparates back to his home, takes the book from the shelf and stabs it with the sword. With a deadly smirk, he focuses his magic inwards to his scar and realizes that he can use this connection to Voldemort to apparate to all the other Horcruxes.

Sheaths his sword and gathers his magic. Good riddance to that madman.

(write him finding each one? focusing his quickening on his scar and forcefully directing it with his magic and think sharply that it is wrong and foreign and should be destroyed as an intruder to his body, just like a Goa'uld symbiote.

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

(Because life goes on, even after Voldemort.)

**March 1995** \- Methos meetsDuncan MacLeod after he learns that Kalas has killed Watcher Donald Salzer.

1995 – The pre-immortal (now immortal) 'Jack' that Perenelle adopted is Jack O'Neil from Stargate. Charlie O'Neill dies by accidentally shooting himself with Jack's gun. Jack retires from active duty. A few months later, Jack is recalled to active duty to be a part of the stargate programme. Around this time, Daniel also presents his theory on aliens and pyramids.

1995 – Jack: So, I'm getting divorced. But you'll never guess what I've been up to, old man…

(Methos tells Jack about being Zeus, and what he knows about the Goa'uld.)

1996 – the horsemen return arc dun dun dunnn

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

Early 1997 – Jack is back in the Stargate programme.

(intermingling between Methos and Jack)

add in a bit of Sirius, who had found Remus Lupin days after He'd escaped from Azkaban. Methos finds his name funny, especially as he can tell he's a werewolf. They came to visit him in Joe's bar. Methos decides to let Joe and some of his immortal peeps in on magic.

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

1998 - Meeting Remus Lupin (properly, rather than just seeing in the Potter's wedding) reminded him that it had been quite a while since he'd heard from the first children he'd raised. Tracks down Romulus – now "Sabertooth" from X-men storyline (film version?) – and literally beats the sourness out of him. Find out about Remus'(Logan/Wolverine) memory loss. (Damn it – why didn't you contact me? You know I would have helped you the second I found out.

Snarling – "He don't want no help – fucker should get himself out of his own mess!"

"He's your brother!"

"Yeah, he was my brother – we fought neck and neck together for fuckin' years but he showed his fucking true colours when he went soft on me and left" –  **  
**

"He went soft on you?  _Soft_? That's not how I raised you! Don't let your animalistic side control you, Romulus. "

"Yeah, well, it fucking gets harder to control the longer it goes on – the more I grow, the more  _it_ does too! If I didn't fucking meditate loads like you taught me when I was a kid, I would have lost my mind completely by now. … I'm doing the best I can."

"With amnesia, has Remus forgotten that he needs to meditate?"

"Nah, I checked. It's like a muscle memory or something, because I've seen him practicing meditation on the go when he's training or on that stupid motorbike of his."

Romulus promises that he'll keep an eye on Remus, but says he would have done that anyway even without the old man interfering.

Methos gives him his number, says if he ever needs him, and tells him where he usually goes.

("I'm going by Adam a lot, these days."

"I'm going by Victor."

Adam rolls his eyes. "I'll have to tell you about Perernell's new boyfriend, sometime.")

Methos hadn't actually expected Romulus to take him up on his offer so relatively soon, but figured that Wolves were generally pack animals, and without having Remus as company, Romulus must have grudgingly sought him out. Claims he was 'passing through the area' and remembered he'd find him thereabouts.

Methos tells Romulus about the research he's been doing on ways to heal from Adamantium brain damage, and says that finding ways to counteract the metal is hard (because it actually has very high magical qualities?), but that he's onto something that would take a while to work out, but seemed like a viable treatment option.

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

2003 AD – clone of Jack O'neil.

clone comes to Methos, thinking that as a clone he wouldn't be thought of as a son but goes to him as the only person he knows to be able to change the way he looks (can't stand looking like someone he thinks he isn't). Methos hugs him hard – "do you remember Perenelle tucking you in at night? Do you remember me teaching you how to use a sword?"

"Yes, but those memories aren't mine –"

"Memories are funny things. If I lost all my memories, would I still be me?"

"Yes, of course you would, but –"

"But nothing boy, hear me out. I once did – lose all my memories, I mean. But I wasn't myself afterwards; I was a horrible person. I was cultivated into a despicable thing –  _nothing_ like what I used to be. Then when I got my memory back… I remembered everything, but it was like they didn't really belong to me; this was a different person, and I felt like I was stealing his memories. But they were mine now, and I took what I could – because those memories made me a better person. I've experienced a lot of things, son, and it took me a long, hard time to learn the truth; it doesn't matter what you are or used to be, so long as you try to be the person you  _want_  to be. As far as I'm concerned, you're my son as much as you ever were."

("How about John, after the Shepherd who found you?"

"Sure. John… John Sheppard. I like it.")

("but I – the other me – his current legal name is John now –"

"Oh, as if  _legality_ ever really had a true impact on either of us. You deserve to keep that connection to your past – a connection to the you that makes you who you are. Names are important; they are representations of the self, they keep you grounded when everything else changes. Why do you think people know the name of Methos? It would have been much simpler to stop using it entirely a long time ago, especially if I wanted to stay unnoticed. But I didn't, and I feel like it forces me into a better man – keeps me connected to my past.")

Methos makes John a potion that will permanently alter his appearance, doing so on a genetic level – if a sample of his new DNA was taken, the closest match to Jack O'Neill would be a relationship as distant as cousin, at best.

Methos helps John forge new identity papers now that he's got a new appearance (and conveniently ties off the paper trail of what the government had made for the clone), and ages him a few years, making it seem as if John had already done his airforce military traininig – ("I just did my bit in school, I need to get back out in the action. Airforce is good; there's no feeling quite like flying.")

2004 AD

John Sheppard flies Jack O'neill to the stargate base. Is loving the fact that Jack doesn't recognize him – especially since they were  _both_ suppressing their quickening so other immortals wouldn't sense it (a trick Methos taught them after their first death).

("Goddamn * insert name of dart thing * "

Jack pulls out his gun. "Wait, how do  _you_ know what that was?"

"Ahh, come on Jacky. Don't you recognize your own brother?"

Jack stares in confusion. "You're not Romulus or Remus." He paused, then squinted his eys and tilted his head. "Wait. Are you?")

2005 AD – Methos gets himself onto the Atlantis project as a linguist/historian/anthropologist.

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

2005 – with the help of Ancient technology, manages to produce a potion that combined science and magic, that would not only fix what the adamantium bullets did to Remus' brain, but restore the memories he lost because of it.

goes back to Earth, finds Remus – now 'Wolverine' – with the x-men. Knows he can't just sneak up behind the man and inject him with the solution. Standing at the gates of the school, he remembers how he first met Xavier, through his friend Eric…

(Que flashback of helping young Eric (Magneto) in the war as Benjamin Adams, and telling both of them that his immortality was his mutation.)

Goes in and meets Xavier, tells him that he heard what had happened to a good friend of his – a fellow immortal mutant, and believed he'd created a solution to help. (Xavier's a good man and wants what's best for all mutants – sometimes, being upfront works out better than being sneaky).

Gets help for amnesia cure from Inpu, since he's the only doctor that Methos would trust with one of his children so badly injured and in such delicate matters.

Inpu = now going by James Wilson. Sherlock = now Doctor House.

At end of chapter, visits Joe and Duncan. Thinks about the stargate program, atlantis, mutant evolution and the progression of magic after the war with Voldemort. Understands that the world was changing, would keep changing, and the best he could do was prepare for it – and help his friends prepare for it too along the way.

"So. What do you think about Aliens?"

**Epilogue**

**Sometime in the not-too distant future… (Stardate: whatever)**

Methos felt he had the right to be a rather grumpy man. True, life still delivered the most amazing surprises; technology now was advanced enough that he was able to have his very first genetic child – his darling Joanna – but her mother, understandably, became rather upset when he told her he was immortal. Horrified by the idea of him living long after she passed away, his wife – now ex – had divorced him and left him in the dust, unable to cope with the idea of an immortal man in her life.

Methos scowled as a woman forced him out of the cubicle and towards his seat. He didn't really want to be here. Ever since he had once drowned for almost four hundred years, he'd developed a rather bad phobia of being on water, which translated rather horridly to ships. Which, of course, meant that he felt irritated and terrified on any type of ship -  _especially_ ones crafted by only human technology. A headache started to worm its way between his eyes; no, he did  _not_ trust human technology hurtling its way through the blackness of space, with its capacity for dumbfuckery and that terrible moment of 'oh, sorry Methos – I only remembered to bring one parachute! Since you're immortal though, you'll be alright, right?'

No. He did  _not_ like flying in human technology; he much preferred Asgard, Ancient, or heck, even Goa'uld ships. They, at least, had already had several millennia to work out the kinks. Humans, though, had only relatively recently begun space travel. And humans were just too unpredictable with the – well, the  _human_ element to mess up the slightest things.

Unfortunately, things weren't looking any better when he was shoved in a seat next to a pre-immortal that had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen and that horrifying, terrifying aura of Highlander-self-sacrificing-boy-scout that promised to drag him into many,  _many_  'adventures'.

Methos felt like throwing up.


End file.
